Portrait

Candace’s shoulder ached with exertion, but she fought to maintain the agreed-upon placid expression.

“Chin down,” a voice said. Candace hastened to obey.

The artist’s eyes darted between her and his canvas, adding brushstrokes little by little. He raised his arm, pushing his hair off his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving streaks of bright blue paint above his eyes and into his messy brown hair.

Candace wondered where those colors would come into play. Her untrained eye only noticed the luminescent warmth of her costume and hair.

“Okay,” the painter said. “We’re done here now.” Candace carefully unbent herself, returning to her straight posture with a louder groan than intended.

Whoops, she thought, glancing at the satisfied face of the artist. He caught her eye and motioned for her to come to the other side of the easel.

She lugged her assigned prop, using it as a walking stick, albeit a top-heavy one. She feared its heavy tapping would scratch the hardwood floor.

“I was going to go for a strawberry flavor, but with your hair…the colors would clash,” the painter said, staring only at his own work, reaching a hand out as if to stroke it tenderly. “So I knew the flavor had to be blueberry,” he half-grinned to himself.

Candace looked at the painting with surprise. The studio lights glinted off wet paint, but the scene within was a stormy night. Her eyes traced over herself: not a tired middle-aged woman, but a figure standing resolute in the rain. Her clothes and hair lit a fire in the darkness, and in her hand — not the stop sign that still weighed her down — but a brilliant, over-sized lollipop beacon, swirling with blues like something cosmic.

She smiled. “Blueberry,”

Her gaze wandered to the white-painted words at the top of the dark sky:

The Lollipop Lady