The first time I met the painter was in the spring. It had been windy all week before then, and with the winds had come a never ending cycle of warm evening, and frigid mornings. I kept trying to sink into my coat a little deeper as I headed to work.
I had been taking my usual route, taking the bus the majority of the way, before walking along the side of the highway to get to the office. That spring morning though, was the first time I saw her.
She was sitting there, on the hill next to the sidewalk, painting away. Every couple seconds, she would look up, appearing to check the area for references. Then she would look down again, working away at her art once more. I had never seen someone paint near here before, so I was very intrigued.
“ What are you painting?” I asked her. She didn't stop with her art. The only indicator that she had heard me was in the form of a quick glance in my direction.
“ Not much. I needed references.” She said.