Open Writing

Frank, or more correctly Francesco, had an unfortunate figure. One he blamed, perhaps unjustly, on his Italian heritage, on his mother's belief that one must feed children large amounts of pasta, whether they wanted it/needed it, or not.

Now, still only in his early twenties, Frank resembled a short squat barrel tapering at both ends, although not greatly. By way of contrast his legs thinly descended into large flat feet, but his arms equally disproportionate, descended to the most beautiful sensitive hands, the hands of an artist. Dark unruly hair partly covered a face that might have been deemed ordinary had you not noticed the sharp black eyes sparkling with intelligence and hope.

Hope that he, like so many of his mates, would find a girl who would love him, love him not because he cut a fine figure nor had a bubbling personality but because he was Frank, a quiet man. The girls he met at clubs, his evening classes or who were daughters of his parent's friends seemed to shy away from him.

Sadly, Frank withdrew more and more into his own world expressing through his art, feelings in danger of being suppressed totally, making beautiful paintings few saw.

One night when putting the finishing touches to a painting, a slightly surreal beach scene filled with light, activity, and colour except for the ominous looming of a grey cloud, he became aware of someone standing behind him. Thinking that it was his teacher he turned saying, 'What do you think of it?'

A soft voice, definitely not that of his teacher, answered, 'I think it is wonderful.'

Frank's mouth opened and shut but the pretty dark-haired girl looking at his painting with such intense scrutiny went on, 'the colour, the life of it. I wish I could instill such life into my work.'

She stopped and smiled. 'Sorry, you probably don't even know me. I'm not a regular in this class. My name is Rose and I'm a sculptor or would-be sculptor and I come to sit in on some of your life classes. Tonight I'm just picking up some of my stuff.'

Then Frank did remember her, slim body encased in an ungainly smock, hair in a tight knot, but still beautiful. He, too, had admired her work and was surprised with the ease with which he told her so, surprised when the teacher called the end of class.

As they prepared to leave the teacher came over and asked if they were coming to the end of term fancy dress party. When Rose didn't answer Frank muttered, 'No, what would someone like me be able to go as?'

'Why Frank you make a marvelous Roman Senator.'

'Yes,' chimed in Rose, 'You'd look great in a toga.' And before Frank could protest further the teacher picked up cloth, normally used for draping models and began to experiment, 'And you Rose must go as his Roman Lady,' she enthused.

So, a week later Frank found himself going to the party, now expertly clad as a Roman Senator, with his Lady Rose at his side.

And on him that toga looked good. Should he doubt it for a moment, the look in Rose's eyes told him otherwise.

© Colleen McMillan

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Colleen writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au