Image from Google

The white canvas stared at him blankly.  His eyes fixed on her face. A single change of expression was noted. 

           As she rested on the chair with a dusty, bounded book in her hand, he observed her, his face stiff. 

How was she finding his book? Was she more intrigued? Or simply scrolling through? He wanted to sketch it all! This was a rare situation dawned upon a reader and the writer. 

      Her face suddenly turned firm. Her wrinkled brows meant something serious. “She is angry. No. It’s  just the wondering. “, he thought. And his brush stroked its colours on the paper, bending and curving as she smiled occasionally. 

When she turned the pages as if not let the story go, his brush would move faster, determined to capture it all. 

After a week long , when she finally scrolled through the last page, he could see her eyes from across the lane. Like everyday. As she closed the book and went inside the house to take a nap, his eyes were now staring at the canvas, satisfied and peaceful. 

      There it was. His book in her eyes and expressions, in the form of a painting! This was it! 


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