by Samantha Lee
The artist was seated at the top of the cliff when I clambered over the edge.
“Did you find it on the way up?” he asked. “Fulfillment?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Not this time.”
The painting was the Yosemite backcountry, transcendent white and green under a crystal sky. My yellow windbreaker, earthbound, was a drop of paint drowned by the expanse.
“I call it Solitude,” said the artist.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said. “I’m sick of solitude.”
He dipped his brush into cherry-red, and I left him painting.
I met her on the way down. Her windbreaker was cherry-red.
I am a writer, nurse, and rock climber currently living in Vero Beach, FL.