Woman unseen

She swirls her bitter cocktail, the black straw pinched between her French tips. Auburn curtain bangs sweep across her cheek as she leans onto the cherry bartop, thinking she’s masked herself. Except I still see her, as well as the markings on my Moleskine sketchbook, proving it impossible for a woman like her to remain unseen. 

I take a slow, steady drag of my beer and brush away graphite shavings with the sleeve of my flannel. Breathing deeply, I study the sheet's clean surface. The frame of the woman’s face is delicately free-handed; each contour of her strong cheekbones and narrow jawline is shadowed with precision. Absent from my portrait are the finer details of her expression, the way glaze forms over her hazel eyes before she blinks it away as if she had just caught herself drifting to somewhere far. I outstretch my worn, calloused hands, intertwining each finger before I crack their knuckles in release. 

My father, the militant accountant that he is, would scoff if he saw me now, spending my Thursday night in an East Village bar, drooling over my sketches. Nothing fills him with greater disappointment than how his 29-year-old son couldn’t hold down an entry-level nine-to-five job. Something about my overgrown dark stubble and hoop earring didn’t translate well in a corporate setting, or maybe it had more to do with me. He doesn’t withhold from showing his disappointment each time I come home, which has become increasingly infrequent, asking when I’ll finally get a real job. Instead, my life’s work is held between the spine of a sketchpad. 

Art had always worked out for me before I hit a dry patch. The creativity that transformed a vision into a framed mantelpiece evaporated. With no real inspiration, I forced the pages of my sketchbook full of dull drawings void of any meaning or attachment, and it shows. 

Galleries are no longer interested in featuring my abstract compositions, deeming them “emotionally absent”. What used to be a vibrant oasis with decorative greenery and vintage market finds is now an empty studio apartment with scattered possessions. Not that my landlord, the only person who visits, notices when he comes to deliver my overdue bills. I came here tonight hoping to numb my growing worries with a pint until I saw her. Her soft, supple features contrasted by a lost disposition that made me reach for pen and paper, more thirsty than ever before. 

A sudden rocking wakes me from my thoughts as I see the tabletop struggling to balance. Pencils roll to the floor, and the autumn-colored film of my lager drips over the glass’s crystal edge, narrowly missing the corner of my drawing. Heated, I stand, instinctively looking for the ruckus that nearly caused the sinkage of my work. Raising my elbow, I pull back and snarl at the drunken bar-goer who stumbled into my workspace, fist clenched. “Whoa, whoa. Chill, man,” his pal says, eyebrows raised sharply above his soft, melancholic eyes, shooting me an empathetic yet fearful look. I can’t risk losing any progress, I remind myself, suddenly aware of the cloudiness filling my head. Relieved at the unstirred remains of my sketch, I stumble back into my stool, letting out a shaky exhale. Beginning to stencil the finer features, I center my gaze back to my model’s seat. Where there once was a slim-formed early thirty-something-year-old, there is now a vacancy, allowing me to see all the way back through the bar. I blink fast, hoping to conjure her figure into the stool. Refusing to believe that she’d left the bar without my notice, I slap loose tens onto the table, hoping it will cover the size of whatever bill I’ve amassed, and run out the door. I know I must follow to find where in this city my mystery woman could have gone. 

She hadn’t left long ago; she must still be nearby. Standing on the corner of the street, I consider which direction she would have turned. One side of the street is barren, gray pavement that stretches for blocks, while the other is animated with passersby flowing in groups of old friends and new couples, all drunk on the late fall air. I choose the direction full of life, imagining a woman like her hidden by the street’s excitement. My feet march to the beat of my pounding heart, looking for a bobbing head of red hair in the crowd and the face with defining features that will reverse galleries’ rejection letters. 

Reaching the end of the block, I pass a swarm of people exiting a theater, its red and white lights twinkling overhead. An evening show must have just let out because the street fills with the blur of faces, powering past me. I stumble over my thick boot as movie-goers stream past me in all directions, losing my footing on the pavement. Straightening my posture, I adjust and pull my shoulders up, hoping the gained height will allow me to see farther ahead. 

My heartbeat falls short, faltering for a second from the hope that blooms within. It’s impossible to miss: the street food stand where a hot dog is being exchanged for a crumpled five-dollar bill by a hand belonging to a red-headed woman. I speed up in my step, recognizing the familiar frame that is now facing away from me, clothed in a black collared coat. No longer concerned about whose shoulders mine brush on the way to her, I pick up my pace. She’s finally an arm's length away from me, but as I extend my hand to meet her shoulder, my breath falls short. The woman spins around, and my eyes are immediately drawn to her engorged stomach, swaddled by her maternal hands. Definitely not my muse. 

Head hung low, I continue walking in a straight direction. Accepting my fate, I conclude that there were a million ways I could have alternatively gone about finding her. Maybe she was a lost cause before I even left the bar. As the block tapers off, I reach the empty expanse of a waterfront park facing the Hudson River. I keep marching forward, already feeling the coolness of the water’s edge as I get closer. 

Slumping to my feet, I sit on the cemented sidewalk, distracting myself with the laces of my boots as I pull them apart. My sketchbook sits next to me, and sensing my mood, sardonically opens to the picture of her, which is now noticeably missing her delicate frame. Laughing at myself, I picture where that woman must be now. Presumably in a steamed shower, with pummeling pressure, in the apartment that she owns, where her work clothes are hung, ready, waiting for tomorrow. She will commute to work as she always does, not even remembering the bar she patronized the night before, having cleaned the disparity that I had seen in her earlier. I collapse my posture as a flicker of light sparks from behind the trees. Maybe she left to meet someone, and that is what prompted her to leave, which would mean that I didn’t even see her the way I thought I had. 

Agitation clouds my thoughts with no release. Pushing off my feet, I trudge to the unrailed edge. Here I am, cold, with no place to go, not just tonight but all the nights after. It’s only when memories flash into mind, almost by some form of miracle, that I can visualize it now: an image of a striking woman, painted with soft, supple colors layered with images of vibrant life; the blurred faces from the theater; the woman rubbing her bump. Filled with purpose, greater than what I felt in the bar, I turn around, marching toward my sketchbook. My foot lands on the untied lace of my shoe, causing me to lose my balance. I fall backward, waiting for the landing that never comes until ice coats my skin, and watch as bubbles rise to the surface without me.

 〜 

A woman with auburn hair stands behind a tree, holding the cigarette she just lit between her French tips. She looks toward the river, following the splashing sound of my body hitting water, and begins walking home, noticing the faint sound of pages rustling in the wind.