The waves of the Atlantic crashed against the rocks, which was four hundred feet down from which the two were laying on a blank sheet they stole from Jack’s bed. It was a beautiful day in Ireland, cold, but finally sunny. Though the shore was rarely visible, the sunlight bounced off the ocean’s riffs and made the grass look spectacularly green that day. This made Annie excited. She was lost in her sketchbook, drawing the shapes of the Cliffs of Moher, getting cheap charcoal dust all over Jack’s clean sheet. He didn’t mind, actually he didn’t notice at all. It was one of the best days of his life when Annie entered it all the way from New York. Most of the Irishmen had wanted her from the beginning, but he was the one that got her. Jack felt great pride in this as he awed over her aggressively smearing her pastels onto the paper. He knew that days like this she felt inspired from the sunlight. Her skin would glow and she always let her dark blonde hair down from the tight bun she would have on the cold, dreary days.

On days like this, Annie would forget Jack was even there. Getting lost in a painting or drawing, her mind could go anywhere. From thoughts about traveling, her sisters back home to the boy she left heart broken in New York. She wondered if this art apprenticeship in Ireland was worth it and how she wouldn’t return home until it was. At that moment she threw her sketchbook on the floor in front of Jack. It was spectacular. Jack always wondered how she could look at something and replicate it perfectly in the matter of minutes. But then again, that was Annie. Her mouth was crooked as she analyzed it, always being her worst critic.

“Is there enough light?”

“Yes.”

“Is there enough shadows to bring out the light?” “Yes.” She nodded at Jack’s confidence in her quick landscape and fell back on the blanket to stretch in the sun. Jack fell back next to her and stared at the uncommon November, Irish blue sky.

“I can’t go home with nothing achieved, Jack. I want to be great someday.”

Jack turned his head to look at her staring at the sky with one eye shut.

She went on, “I want someone to look at my paintings and say ‘Wow. That right there is special.’ I want them to feel pulled to it. I want them to reach out and ruin it because they felt so compelled. How can that happen when people compare art to Picasso or Van Gogh? I know my art looks good but what if I want to make something crazy and busy. And abstract and meaningful. Will I be seen as mediocre while the men who do this are geniuses? Frida Kahlo got recognition because she painted herself crippled after breaking her back.”

Some things Annie said flew too high over Jack’s head but sometimes he felt the same fear she did. More often than not. Annie turned her head to Jack. She looked worried.

“Am I going to have to break my back to be great?”

She looked for an answer but, again, only saw that blank stare. Jack felt compelled to reach out to touch her at the risk of ruination but never did. She realized she wanted something more.

Alexandra Francese is from a small town in the Hudson Valley in upstate New York. She now resides in Tampa where she is the editor of Creation Magazine and writes poetry and fiction. She has publications in the literary journals Borrowed Solace, Bar Bar Magazine, and the blog Sad Girls Club, and is currently working on a novella.