Too Young

[beckstra]

Painting her own icon was no problem. It was never to be seen in a cathedral, there were no rules to follow, but Mary the mother of Jesus she was. Exhausted after a marathon of inspiration, she took her fanbrush, tapped the water from it, and wiped it on her jeans. Placing the brush in the jar, she stepped away from the oily easel to the window.

A faint plunking of piano keys drifted in with the breeze as she looked out her window into the neighbor's living room. The sound was pretty but forced. She could see the young man's fingers stretching between keys. His untamed hair reeked of indie-rockstar curls, and the hemp braids around his wrists flopped around as his hands moved up and down the baby grand. He started singing. Making out the words was next to impossible, but there was a big voice coming from those skinny wrists.

The tune was unfamiliar, but reminded her much of the color green.