Conscientiously Colette loosened her fingers to curl around the wrist of the other, a smile charming the curves of her lips in the process. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I’m no professional.” The words flowed with an airy tone from her lips as she lifted crystal hues to meet his own. Something about him proved so familiar, yet the woman couldn’t quite place her finger on it. As if she had known him in another lifetime, she couldn’t disregard the engulfing promise of assurance she felt in his presence. An indivisible realization that she’d follow him nearly anywhere in the city if asked, even after only knowing him for minutes. “But I guess I just believe art should be felt, every curve and stroke appreciated.” Gliding her grip upon his hand, she gently overlaid his hand with her own. More petite fingers spreading atop his larger ones as she led it with a deliberate yet slow hold, her thumb dancing atop his knuckles as she urged a slight separation between them.
“Here,” With the most delicate pressure, she placed their hands on the painting, outlining the tree bark and every ridge that her brush had made on canvas. “–I was in Paris when I saw this tree, they even say it’s the oldest on the grounds.” Guiding his index finger, she ran the length of the trunk. “And it made me wonder how many memories it held. How many tales and moments were shared under its shade, and if it could tell a story, which would it pick?” Pausing at the roots, she turned to look up at Beckett, the familiar anchoring sentiment returning. “And just how many more would be made after I viewed it…” Pausing, she allowed her grip to soften against his hand, still placed idly against the painting. “Moments make us who we are, and just one can change everything, don’t you agree?” Pausing, she traced his features with her gaze. “Colette, my name, it’s Colette.”
Though they were talking about art, a subject area in which Beckett’s expertise was as nonexistent as they came, he felt like he was seeing the situation with new eyes. He didn’t often slow down, didn’t care for the smelling of the flowers or taking in the view aspects of life. No, Beckett was a man of action. Someone who had chased an adrenaline rush all of his life. He appreciated beauty in the adventure and the pounding of his heart in his chest. Which was perhaps why he was appreciating the painting now. As the brunette’s hand brushed over his, gently but firmly resting on the back and spreading his fingers, Beckett felt his heart kick up a notch in his chest. “Big believer in appreciating the details, love?” He asked, keeping his eyes trained on the painting no matter how much he wanted to look down at her. “I think the details are what make the big picture and people often forget that.” Sure, she would be thinking about the art in front of them but Becks’ mind went to high-intensity situations where the details saved lives or made a case.
As his fingertips touched the cool paint that had dried so long before on the canvas, Beckett relaxed his hand and simply let her guide him. It felt like she was walking with him through the scene, her words caressing a picture that was not only being seen by him in the present but also being played in his mind’s eye. A woman like the one next to him belonged somewhere like Paris. She was too cultured for a place like Vegas. She had too much self-awareness with a dash of day dreaming that he realized made her able to create the art like the one they were admiring. A piece that he now so clearly realized was her own. Beckett briefly wondered if there was ever something that he did where people felt they were getting a glimpse into who he was- whether that was when he was sparring, or driving a fast car, or taking a run through the city.
If there was anyone who understood how much could change in one moment, it was Beckett. It took one moment for that IED to explode. One moment for him to be bound and gagged and drug off to some hellhole in the middle of the fucking desert. One moment for his buddy to be killed in front of him. One moment to be put on a plane back to the states. One moment to decided to jump off a cliff and another moment to be saved. Hell, life was made of moments. Another detail within the big picture that people liked to ignore.
His thumb brushed over the painted canvas a couple of times before he was looking down at the artist, his gaze drawn to hers as if he could feel it resting on his expression as he gazed at the piece. “It’s nice to meet you, Colette.” Beckett said, his voice little more than a whisper. “And when you put it like that, there’s no way that I couldn’t.”
