“Impressive, no?”

His warmth met yours, a tiny pocket of comfort in the otherwise harshly cold art gallery with dim, romantic, incandescent lighting.

You looked at the painting, a monochromatic orange portrait of a young boy, with Afrocentric features, sitting on a Grecian-like village, a deep amber sun behind him while he looks forward at the viewer.

You shrugged, feeling indifference.

“What do you feel that makes it impressive?” You inquired, he turned to you, noting your profile. “It invokes feelings of hope, a rose in the dark.”

You hummed, nodding your head, while your eyes zoomed in. You could still see the mistakes you made, the texture of your brush strokes, the slight disproportions between the eyes and the nose.

“It’s a mess.” “It is not a mess- it’s gorgeous, it takes talent to use the same color and its hues to tell a story.” He defended it- defended you, from yourself.

“You some art critic?” “No,” You huffed a laugh, your smile beautiful, adorned by gold caps on your canines and open faced grills on your bottom row. “I’m the artist.”

“I never seen the craft match its creator.” The compliment was layered and genuine, despite him not smiling, his eyes were soft…is that attraction you detect?