New Beginnings *{Sand Snake & Vanity Fair}*

[Sand Snake]

New Beginnings By Sand Snake and Vanity Fair​

I finished my morning jog along the boardwalk, my pulse still elevated as I slowed down, breathing in the salty breeze. The sun was already beating down on my shoulders, making the air feel warm and sticky. I brushed the sweat from my brow, feeling it dampen the loose strands of hair that had slipped free from my ponytail. Maybe I should have started earlier, I thought, squinting up at the clear sky. I adjusted my pace to a walk, scanning the shops along the boardwalk. A bright new sign reading "Fresh Haven" caught my eye—one of those trendy, health-focused spots offering smoothies, fruit bowls, and other fresh snacks. It looked like just what I needed. A smoothie sounds perfect right now. I tugged at the hem of my cropped workout top, which clung to my skin, and walked inside. My reflection caught my eye briefly in the café window as I reached for the door handle. I was dressed in an off-white sports bra and high-waisted leggings—comfortable and practical, though not exactly forgiving when it came to sweat. The fabric hugged my body snugly, highlighting my toned abs and legs, and I wore a pair of white sneakers with a splash of pink. At least I look the part of a fitness enthusiast, I mused with a small smile. After ordering a green smoothie, I waited by the counter, shifting my weight from foot to foot. The cool air inside was a relief after the heat outside. I took a moment to take in the cheerful atmosphere—the plants hanging by the windows, the bright colors, and the rows of fresh fruit on display. It's nice to see places like this popping up, I thought. When my name was called, I paid, took the cold cup in my hand, and stepped back out into the sunlight. I spotted an empty table just outside Fresh Haven and made my way over, setting my drink down. I took a long sip, letting the refreshing blend of kale, apple, and ginger cool me down. As I glanced around, something caught my eye—a man standing a few yards away, his focus entirely on the easel in front of him. He was painting a couple sitting on a bench near the edge of the boardwalk, their heads close together, lost in their own little world. The man looked to be in his forties, with short, light brown hair that was a bit tousled by the wind. He had a rugged, somewhat weary expression, like someone who'd been through more than his fair share of life's ups and downs. His beard was trimmed but added a roughness to his look, complementing his broad shoulders. He wore a maroon hoodie over a gray henley shirt, and the casual clothes fit loosely on his lean frame. His eyes, though focused on his work, carried a certain depth—almost a heaviness that intrigued me. I watched him for a moment, captivated by the movement of his brush—swift, assured, as if he could see something in the couple that the rest of the world might miss. He must have been doing this for years, I mused, my curiosity growing with every stroke of color that added life to the canvas. Taking my smoothie with me, I wandered closer, drawn by an inexplicable pull. As I got nearer, I could make out the details of the painting—the couple's expressions captured in warm, blended tones, the sunlight glinting off the water behind them recreated in glimmers of gold and blue. I found myself marveling at the artist's ability to translate reality onto the canvas. I wish I could see the world like that—find something beautiful in every moment. Before I realized it, the words were out of my mouth. "That's fantastic," I said, my voice filled with genuine awe. "You really capture them beautifully." The man glanced up, his eyes meeting mine for the first time. They were a steely blue, the kind of eyes that seemed to hold a story or two. A hint of surprise flashed across his face, followed by a small, appreciative smile. "Thank you," he said, his voice deep but gentle. He took a step back from the canvas, giving me a better view of his work. "They're a lovely couple—makes it easy to paint." I nodded, my eyes lingering on the painting. He's being modest. "Still, it takes real talent to make something look so alive." He let out a soft chuckle, a hint of humility in the sound. "Well, I'm glad you think so." He paused, then added, "Name's Sam, by the way." "Jennifer," I replied, offering a smile in return. "Do you paint here often?" Sam shrugged, turning his attention back to the couple on the bench. "Whenever inspiration strikes, I suppose. The boardwalk has a way of bringing people together—always something worth capturing." I found myself intrigued by the way he spoke, the calmness that seemed to come from years of observation, of seeing the world in a way I hadn't quite learned yet. There's something about him, I thought, something raw and real that makes everything else feel so… ordinary. I took another sip of my smoothie, feeling the urge to linger just a little longer, to learn more about this artist who seemed to see so much in the everyday.

 

[VanityFair]

I continued with my work, and I was almost finished, but then my lines got corrupted. The strokes weren't as fine as ten minutes ago. The couple sitting on the bench overlooking the ocean was patient, but I wasn't. She had distracted me. And although she was nice and looked quite good at first glance, I thought of her as way too blonde and chirpy. She was way too happy for a tuesday morning, but she also had a green drink in her hand from the hipster place behind me. It had just opened a few days ago. I knew, because I was walking down the boulevard almost every day.

It was ritualistic at this point, whenever I didn't know if I wanted to be buried six feet under or bang my head against the walls of my apartment, I sought this place out. A sanctuary of sandy winds, the fresh smell of cold salt water and my cigarettes. I shouldn't be smoking, but what the hell?

After a few more brushes my fingers stopped moving the way I wanted them to move, so I gave up on the fine details and made peace with delivering subpar work. They wouldn't have noticed the difference anyway, but I like to think of myself as a good, honest artist. I told the couple I was done, showed them the picture and saw that they were happy with the result. They kissed each other, I threw them a faint smile, got my twenty bucks and packed my things.

My brown leathered sketchbook was filled with all sorts of paintings, but my brain was mostly focused on people. That was where I felt home. Outside the pictures, observing from a distance and painting the people the way I saw them. And the way I saw it was always changing. Some days I wanted to lay on the ground and feel the earth beneath me and on other days I just wanted to curse the weatherman for ruining my day. Today was something in the middle. The couple thanked me again and finally took off.

I stood up, pinched the sketchbook between my right elbow and the side of my chest and put both of my hands into the pockets of my jacket.

"And thanks, you successfully interrupted my work." I told her in an unserious tone. I stood half a head taller than she did. Her eyes were blue, but mine were more blue-ish, darker and brooding. Her hair was perfectly blonde, like one of those advertisement girls, the ones that end up on big posters.

Sporty gal, I haven't seen her before.

"What are you doing here besides drinking that ugly stuff? Looks like they fished it out from the water." I smiled and shook my head. Something about her made me wonder, I couldn't put a finger on it, but she had my attention.