Moonmelody
Being everything which now thou art
Sturdy
Solid, unmoving, hardy, tempered, sturdy, were not words one would use to describe Maralise Patral’s Easel, quite the opposite actually. Despite being a system for propping other items up, Ms. Patral’s Easel had the misfortune of being lopsided. Not overtly so, but the easel herself was well aware of the fact her front left leg was a millimetre longer than her right. The difference in height causing her to wobble slightly anytime someone placed something new upon her, as if uncertain for the space of a second whether she could actually hold it or not.
Balcony never did that, wobble that is. He possessed a sturdiness that rivaled that of the walls and the floor themselves, all the more impressive that he did it with nothing under him. Mara’s easel often wondered what it must be like to have to be that strong. She never shouldered the weight of a canvas alone, always burdening whatever surface that happened to be underfoot for support. She supposed Balcony had the wall of the apartment building to lean on but truly, he held himself so far apart from it she wondered constantly if he even wanted to be a part of the structure that sheltered her.
Although no one would ever compliment her for her physical strength, Easel delighted in what she was, the mother of beauty, a conduit of creativity, the epicenter of short painter’s art. She basked in the beautiful hues the painter decorated her canvases in, deep purples, sunny yellows and forest greens. Every now and then a splatter of paint would flick or drip off a brush and land on her surface. She treasured every accidental beauty mark, from the orange trail running halfway down her leg, to the small teal fingerprint smear on the handle of her drawer. Every new speckle she accumulated signalling another masterpiece she’d assisted in birthing.
When the short painter would create, Easel would play a game, trying to guess what the image sitting on her nose could be. She hardly ever got it right, and when she was bare, as she was now, she would revel in being so close to the outside world, the colours more vibrant than even those she kept in her drawer. If anything, she was jealous of Balcony and his unobstructed views of the beautiful world beyond the glass that separated them.
Despite his view, Balcony always appeared dour, his grey surface pockmarked from years of weathering, the battle scars proof of his unwavering sturdiness in the face of the elements that sought to erode him. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, his underbelly looming over her as she disappeared under his shadow only to reappear beside him after the short painter carried her up the stairs. She’d felt both kinship and trepidation being next to him. Foolish considering, they were both support systems meant to prop things up, he was just…so much larger than her and…undeniably stronger. She could only imagine what he must think of her wobbly paint speckled legs.
Awkwardly, she recalled a rather embarrassing moment, when the short painter had set her up on his surface for the first time. A strong gust of wind had pushed her, causing her to wobble off balance until his rough face had caught her by the leg, her extra millimetre sinking perfectly into one of his rain carved divots, suddenly forcing her straight upright for the first time in her life. She’d never been more conscious of her inability to stand tall on her own prior to that moment, shame overtaking her. Here he was the epitome of sturdy, and he wasn’t just supporting her, but preventing her wobble! Why had no other surface ever held her this way?
Easel had been both grateful and deeply embarrassed by the intimate contact. Balcony had been silent, stoic as he supported not only her but the painter as well as she moved about on his face, seemingly deeply pleased by her discovery. Having taken note of the improvement, the short painter proceeded to position Easel perfectly within Balcony’s grasp whenever she chose to paint on his surface from then on. As time passed, she’d grown more comfortable on him though, enjoying the rigidity he provided her.
Balcony reminded Easel of the man that frequented Painter’s apartment. He too was dour until the short painter would joke and make him smile. He often wore shades instead of colours as if, like Balcony, he had no desire to be part of the system he was attached too, instead choosing to stand in his own shadow. That made Easel sad, she had hoped one day the short painter might speckle him the way she had her legs. Easel had never expected however, that the man might paint the painter. When the shaded man had reached out and coloured the short painter’s nose yellow with his thumb, Easel had delighted in the playful moment.
The night he had brought her home though, when the short painter had wobbled in her heels like Easel when the wind had pushed her; that was when she realized the man was to the painter as Balcony was too her. Instinctively, the shady man’s hands had shot out to steady the painter, planting her firmly on her feet, forcing her to stand tall. “Sorry,” the painter had giggled, “seem to be having a little trouble with my footing,” she apologized, as he pulled her closer.
“It’s fine,” he murmured, staring down at her as they stood only centimetres from each other, “lean on me anytime.”
The painter’s eyes widened as her head shot up to stare at him, the double meaning hitting her harder than the alcohol. He was extending her support, his friendship in this crazy city she was still trying to find her place in. “Really? ‘Cause I’ve been having a little trouble carrying everything by myself lately,” she whispered, “kinda been feeling on the verge of collapse actually,” she joked self-deprecatingly, the alcohol prompting more honesty to tumble off her lips than she’d meant to share.
“Course,” he whispered, brushing off her question as though being there for her, supporting her, had been what he’d been born to do, his hands on her hips, holding her steady. “I’ll always help you stand your ground,” he promised with a smirk.
Easel practically preened at the man’s words as she glanced out the window at Balcony, wondering what he might say to her if he had a mouth. Feeling giddy, Easel twitched in place as she thought about the way Balcony always helped her stand tall. Oh yes, there was nothing Easel admired more in others than sturdiness.
