Jane Jago’s Drabbles – Three Hundred and Eighty-Four

He was The Artist. 

Every woman he painted felt like the most beautiful in the world. Every landscape became a thing of enchantment. And every commercial design guaranteed world beating sales.

In spite of his genius, he was lonely and unfulfilled.

One day he picked up his brush and painted from his soul. It wasn’t the most beautiful face he had ever painted, and the body was on the generous side but something about the project pleased him more than anything had for many a day.

As he laid down his brush she smiled. The Artist walked into the picture…

©jane jago

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