As a supervisor for road painting work, you see a lot of odd folks. Old Jacob Normal had been doing supervising work for 30 odd years and he’d run into his fair share of oddballs and criminals. It was the norm when most of the roads in this city were painted by clowns sent from City Council for community service. But none of the people were as odd, not even the criminals were as odd as a volunteer worker named Timothy Charleston.

Where most of the people wanted to finish their work and get the fuck outta this place, Timmy took his time. Others just brushed a few lines according to regulation, Timmy was deliberate. Whenever Jacob or any of the other supervisors tried to see what was up, he’d step over his painting like a little kid trying to hide something and talk them off. For a man who looked like he could be sent to a hospital after someone so much as breathes on him, he sure was the defiant. Jacob figured he was one of those ‘artist’ types that tried to put their mark on their work. Jacob ran into quite a few of them, people writing their initials or scribbling in a message when they painted up an arrow or a line.  With those types, you tell them off once or twice and they’d stop, Jacob figured that’s all he had to do.

They were at one of the old roads that lead to nowhere important in a quiet neighbourhood at the corner of the city. It was a small residential area far away from the city, plenty of potholes outside the area they had cordoned off. Normally City Council wouldn’t bother with a place like this, but some old folk and a few police officers lodged a complaint and City Council figured they send Jacob and his crew over to the spot. It was an old street so the folks who lived over there and the bureaucrats over at Council wouldn’t mind if they took their time. Not that anybody was complaining.

Jacob gave the clowns their instructions and they got to work. Everybody went to their assigned spots including young Timothy. When painting roads, usually two people are assigned to a line or an arrow, Timothy painted alone, usually a person painted one arrow and moved to another, Timothy stayed in one spot throughout the four hours they were given.

Today, however, was different. Today was the day they were wrapping up. Most of the painters had already finished their work, sitting underneath the shade. Others were touching up their work under Jacob’s supervision, making sure to close off whatever gaps they had missed. Today was the day Timothy had finished his work. He walked off, grabbing a drink from the cooler box outside the cordon and took a seat underneath the trees.

Jacob glanced over one of the painter’s work, a kid no older than 18 arrested for shoplifting. He placed a hand on his shoulder and told him to rest. He walked over to the arrow Timothy was hyper focused on, feeling an enticing mix of curiosity and a feigned anger, ready to summon it up once Jacob saw just what exactly Mr. Artist was working on.

He didn’t expect what he saw to take his breath away.

Within the white confines of the arrow, Timothy had painted the Eiffel tower in all it’s grandeur. The base of the tower was painted at the arrowhead, and it curved into the line. Timothy purposefully chose to leave some place blank to match the intricacies of the railing and beams of the Eiffel tower and as an added touch added a faint yellow glow using some yellow paint to give the tower an almost otherworldly feel. It was… well… it was beautiful.

Timothy started to walk over to Jacob, looking a little defensive but Jacob raised a hand and gave him a thumbs up. It was time up and everybody would go their separate ways. The community service clowns would head home, the criminals would go back to whatever prison they were fished out from and Jacob had to head back to City Council to give a report to the board. However, something still lingered in Jacob’s mind. In that brief moment Jacob gave Timothy a thumbs up, he could almost see a small smile on Timothy’s gloomy face.

…

In City Council, Rebecca oversaw the files. Cheery despite being given the most boring job in the office, many people popped in the file room just to make conversation with her once they were bored with their jobs. Old Rebecca didn’t mind the company.

She was sitting there behind the glass booth, going through the files wearing round glasses with strings on them. Jacob heard a lot of the young people here and there say Rebecca was like their grandmother and it wasn’t hard to see why. She had stringy white hair, a round face and clothes that went out of fashion twenty years ago. It was rude to ask a girl her age but word around the building was that she was hitting 55. Not that Jacob was one to judge, he was a gruff old man about to hit five decades himself.

“Hey Rebecca,” Jacob said, one hand atop the counter.

“Oh hi, Jacob,” Rebecca said in her cheery voice. “What brings you here today?”

“I’ve been assigned supervisor for a bunch of kids,” Jacob said. “You know, typical road painting stuff. I’m looking for a file on someone named Charleston. Timothy Charleston.”

“Okay, give me a minute,” Rebecca said. She got up from her seat and started going through the files. Jacob peered through the wall of see-through glass into the library of files behind him.  Many files lined the shelves, old files, torn files, files stuffed within a tower of papers. Most of the folders held contents of complaints and future projects. With the disorganised nature of the room and Rebecca’s propensity to chat instead of work, it was no small wonder work never got done until five years after the complaint was lodged.

“Charleston,” Rebecca muttered. “C… C…”

Rebecca passed by the shelves labelled with C, passing by the complaints box which was torn by age. Jacob wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t even noticed it, there was a special kind of laziness government workers tended to have, a sin Jacob would be lying if he said he wasn’t guilty off. Rebecca finally found the file and handed it over to Jacob, almost knocking over the photo of her grandkids she kept on her desk.

“Here you go,” Rebecca said with a smile.

“Thanks,” Jacob said, smiling back.

“Must be some rascal huh?” Rebecca said. “Giving you trouble.”

“Something like that.”

Jacob went over the file, reading it. Timothy was young, almost 30 years old. Much to Jacob’s surprise he didn’t have a criminal record and instead did this boring job as a volunteer. Another surprise was that Timothy was widowed. A man widowed at such a young age and judging by how gloomy and somewhat lonely he looked, didn’t remarry came as a shock to Jacob. Timothy may have seemed like a buzzkill, but Jacob would be lying if he said it wouldn’t be all that hard for him to settle down again. What didn’t come as a surprise to Jacob was that he was unemployed, he was a quote-on-quote artist after all.

“Thanks Rebecca,” Jacob said.

“What’s your opinion on this rapscallion?” Rebecca asked jokingly. “Gonna take him off the team?”

Jacob smiled. “No, I think I’ll tolerate him just a little bit longer.”

…

After a long day of work, Jacob sat in his car and switched on the radio.

“Now for today’s weather with Domenico Wes,” exclaimed the cheery radio announcer. Jacob grinned. Domenico’s weather reports were always scarily accurate. It was almost as if he could control the weather. So, when Domenico said

“It’s going to rain tonight, expect heavy showers and a thunderstorm folks, be sure to pack an umbrella if you’re going out.”

Jacob’s car immediately screeched to a halt. They had just painted the road, which meant some of the fresh paint was going to wash off. But that wasn’t what got his mind in a twist, no. It was the fact that Timothy’s painting would also be washed off. And he didn’t know why, but the thought of it made him sad.

Jacob swerved his car to a halt, driving away from home and back to that ugly rundown street he had worked on. Why was he doing this? Jacob didn’t know. Something about that piece of art had enamoured him, surprised him and when you get to Jacob’s age nothing really surprises you all that much. But he knew deep down, it wasn’t that. He knew why he was doing this; it was the same reason why he asked Rebecca for the files. He knew deep down the answer to his question and knowing that didn’t make it any better. Knowing it raised even more whys.

Why did he paint into the arrow? Why Paris? Why now? Why couldn’t he have painted it on a canvas like any normal person?

Why? Why? Why?

That was what he kept asking himself as he drove towards the site.

And when he brushed aside the whys, Jacob was left with one question.

What will he do with the answers once he gets them?

…

Jacob heard the rain pitter patter on the rooftop. Droplets made the city outside his window a blurry blue painting. The only light illuminating the room was Jacob’s TV playing some old movie and his phone. On the phone was a picture of Timothy’s painting permanently encased behind a screen as if it was frozen in ice.

…

There was an old antique shop named Ahmed’s Antiques a few blocks away from where Jacob lived. Peering through the window it looked empty and what Jacob expected of an antique shop. Old clocks, leather bound books and trinkets all cramped together on worn wooden shelves. Jacob didn’t have to enter to know that the dust would flare up his allergies. Why did Jacob choose this old, empty antique store? Because of the paintings he saw stuck on the wall.

Jacob figured, no, he hoped that the guy who ran the joint knew about the paintings he wanted to sell. And Jacob didn’t want to go to one of those fancy art enthusiasts. He didn’t know why but wanted to keep Timothy’s paintings to himself for now.

He opened the door and the first thing Jacob realised was that he was right about the dust. He let out a loud sneeze.

Sitting at the main desk was what Jacob assumed was Ahmed, an Arabic looking man resting his legs atop his desk and reading a newspaper. When he got up to greet him, Jacob wanted to cringe. He was dressed up like a clown, wearing a top hat, an old looking trench coat and waist coat with a white shirt and red tie. He looked like those British detectives he saw in the movies. Jacob had to stop himself from face-palming when he saw his pinstriped pants and high tipped shoes.

“Hello, I’m Ahmed Lucifer,” Ahmed said, extending a hand for a handshake. Jacob noticed he was wearing white Mickey Mouse gloves. “Pleasure to meet you Mister…”

“Normal,” Jacob said, reluctantly shaking his hand. “Jacob Normal.”

“Well, Mr. Normal,” Ahmed said. “What brings you here?”

“We’ll get to it,” Jacob said. “But first I’d like to know about those paintings you sell.”

“Ah,” Ahmed said. “Come follow me.”

Ahmed led him to the paintings. Jacob saw paintings of a beautiful landscapes, self-portraits and abstract art littering the walls.

“So, what interests you?” Ahmed asked.

“I was hoping I’d get an opinion from you.”

Ahmed was quiet.

“What’s the matter?” Jacob asked. “Cat got your tongue?”

“No, nothing like that,” Ahmed said. “It’s just when it comes to suggesting paintings I tend to be as blunt as possible.”

“I doubt you’ll be as blunt as my ex-wife,” Jacob said, shrugging. “Recommend something to me.”

“Well, Jacob, you seem like someone who doesn’t like to be challenged…”

Jacob suddenly felt defensive. “Hey what’s that supposed to…”

“You seem pragmatic, straight to the point,” Ahmed said. “You only buy things you see the use off, you barely hold sentimental value for day-to-day objects, heck it surprised me when you said you were interested in my paintings. You don’t seem to be the type of person interested in high art.”

“That’s not…” Jacob said softly.

“For someone like you,” Ahmed said, removing a painting from the wall. “A landscape painting would do you well. Cheap, affordable, serves the use of making your house look pretty. Might I suggest Wonders of the Forest by Sunny Jacobson. Just a simple painting of a forest that doesn’t stand out much. People will ask simple questions about it, but it won’t lead to any meaningful conversation, perfect for you.”

Jacob admitted the painting did look pretty nice, but he wasn’t there for the painting.

“You’re just the guy I’m looking for,” Jacob said.

“Excuse me?” Ahmed said.

“You see there’s a painting I want to ask about,” Jacob said. “A person, let’s just say a work mate painted this on the road and I want to know what it’s all about?”

Jacob showed the picture of the painting to Ahmed. He took a glance at it but there was a look of barely concealed amazement on his face.

“So, what do you think?”

“Come with me, Mr. Normal,” Ahmed said, taking huge strides towards his desk.

“Um… okay sure,” Jacob said. “Might I remind you that that’s my phone you’re…”

Ahmed suddenly swerved around; Jacob almost crashed into him. “Also, you’ve taught me a very important lesson Mr. Jacob.”

Ahmed stared directly at Jacob with his deep brown eyes. “Never judge a book by its cover.”

…

It had been almost an hour and Ahmed had been staring at that photo, squinting his eyes, zooming in and out and asking the occasional question.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“So, about this Timothy…”

“You work as supervisor…”

“He let you see the painting…”

Quite frankly, Jacob wanted to get the hell out of here. He was a working man and had a lot of things to do.

Jacob stared at his watch and back at Ahmed.

“Look, I don’t have much time,” Jacob said. “Could you tell me what this painting is all about and give me my phone back?”

“What do you think it’s about?”

“I don’t know!” Jacob exclaimed. “Why do you think I’m asking you?!”

“Well, it’s about Paris.”

“I have eyes!”

“I’m getting to it,” Ahmed said. “You see how the tower is painted. It’s at a low angle, there to emphasise the majesty and splendour of the tower. Your friend…”

“He’s not my friend…”

“Your friend also added a golden glow using…”

“The yellow paint we use for the lines I know,” Jacob huffed out. “Is that all this painting’s about? Paris? That’s lame.”

“I’m getting to it,” Ahmed said.

“Get to it faster!” Jacob said splaying his arms about. “I have work!”

Ahmed shook his head. “I take back my words. A simpleton like you who doesn’t take his time to appreciate something would never…”

“I don’t care,” Jacob said. “Get to the point.”

Ahmed let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine. The emphasis is very exaggerated. Very romantic and dramatic. It feels almost superficial. While the tower looks amazing your friend’s true feelings show in using the blackness of the road to represent the railings and spokes that make up the tower. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“So, Timothy didn’t like Paris?” Jacob said.

“Yes,” Ahmed said. “But why go through such lengths to make it pretty?”

Jacob slumped back on his chair. “I see.”

“You have found a most interesting artist,” Ahmed said. “A very talented one but very very peculiar.”

“How so?”

“Most artists want to make something that lasts,” Ahmed said. “They spend their lives trying to create something that will outlast them and honing their talents to do just that. Your friend is different. He paints using a canvas that will fade.”

Jacob did not know how to take that.

“Will you still be working with this Timothy fellow?” Ahmed asked.

“Yes, I still have to supervise a few more paint jobs here and there?” Jacob said. “Why?”

“Well, would you mind showing me those paintings?” Ahmed said. “Whenever you have the time?”

Jacob shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

Ahmed smiled. “Good. I look forward to working with you.”

…

It was a five-day job. The next road on the list wasn’t in the middle of nowhere like last time but since this road was only one used in a last-ditch effort to cut some traffic, Council gave them a few days leeway to finish up the job. They didn’t have a week like they did the last road. Jacob wondered whether or not Timothy would be able to finish this painting in the five day slot allocated to them.

The days passed, Jacob leaving Timothy to his job. They were a few roadblocks; Jacob noticed Timothy just didn’t paint for some days and on other days he took way too long during his lunch break but sure enough, by the fifth day he was done.

It was the same painting as last time but also not really. The Eiffel Tower stood at the same position it did as the previous painting but this time around there was no pretty glow, no forced glamour. At the bottom of tower was what looked like rats and there were little specks of what seemed like garbage littered around the tower.

Later that night, Jacob took a photo of the painting. He’d show it to Ahmed the following evening, after his work in the council.

…

You’d be surprised how much you could figure out about a person from their social media account.

Jacob rarely ever used his Facebook, only app he ever opted to use being good old reliable WhatsApp. He was glad to find Timothy’s Facebook was public unlike a lot of people he knew nowadays.

Turns out his wife died just at the tail end of last year. It was an unfortunate loss. Scrolling further down, their trip to France was just over five years ago. A very long time ago. Too long in fact, to make paintings about now. Jacob was surprised he even remembered his trip.

What also surprised Jacob was that Timothy made tons of paintings, many of which were stunning and were also for sale. Timothy also took commissions, commissions that he closed after his wife’s unfortunate passing. Judging by all of this and some photos of his house and vehicle he was well off. He could have easily made paintings like this without going through the hassle of signing up for community service so why did he?

Jacob turned, looking at his face through his computer screen. It allowed him to take a small step back. Why was he doing this again? Jacob was never the type to resort to stalking and finding out tiny details about another person so why was he doing this? What had enamoured him so much about an artist painting on roads, an artist for all intents and purposes was vandalising government property? An artist who, a person in Jacob’s position had to turn into the officials.

Jacob didn’t know the answers to these questions and if he was being honest, he couldn’t have cared less about them.

At the end of the day what struck him as odd wasn’t what he was doing, what struck him as odd was, skilled as an artist as Timothy was, why didn’t his other paintings make Jacob feel the same way as the ones he painted on the roads?

…

Ahmed peered at the picture on Jacob’s phone, squinting as if to take in all the details.

“Can you hurry it up?” Jacob said. “I don’t have all day.”

“Patience, my dear friend,” Ahmed said. “You could do well with some in your old age.”

Jacob sighed, arms crossed and tapping his feet. He stared around at Ahmed’s office, at all the weird things lying about. Books, globes, gyroscopes and what looked like a balloon animal gathering dust.

“So, our mutual friend is letting his true feelings about Paris show,” Ahmed said, handing Jacob his phone back.

“What do you mean?”

“The rats and the garbage,” Ahmed said. “I’m sure you noticed it too. Whilst in the previous painting it showed Paris in a beautiful albeit forced splendour this one is showing the reality of Paris or at least how our artist friend saw it, rat infested, garbage riddle and not all that pretty.”

Jacob shrugged. “I mean, Paris can’t be that bad, right?”

“Have you heard about the Paris effect?”

“I hear about it here and there in some documentaries,” Jacob said. “It happens to people who go to Paris and it turns out that the place was not what they expected right?”

“Yeah, it’s a very common amongst Asians,” Ahmed said. “However, also amongst other tourists. Paris is a country that has rats running the streets and tons of garbage lying about. As opposed to how it’s portrayed in the media, Paris isn’t all it’s made out to be.”

“Well, the Paris effect is common amongst Asians, right?” Jacob said. “Timothy isn’t an Asian name and he sure as hell doesn’t look Asian.”

Ahmed paused. “You have me stumped. I don’t understand why he’d go through the effort of painting Paris in a glorious light only to backtrack.”

Jacob’s brain started to feel like scrambled eggs. He didn’t understand art as well as Ahmed over here so to say he was anything but stumped was an understatement. Why would Timothy backtrack? Why did he suddenly start painting again after a long absence after his wife died? And then a light went on.

“Maybe he’s not painting his perspective of Paris,” Jacob said.

“Excuse me,” Ahmed said.

“I did some digging around,” Jacob said. “Apparently the artist is a widower. His wife died just along the tail end of last year. What if in the first painting, he’s not painting his perspective of Paris but…”

Ahmed’s eyes widened. He slapped Jacob across the back, hard.

“Ow!”

“Jacob you genius,” Ahmed exclaimed. “We’ll make an artist out of you yet!”

“Uh, thanks,” Jacob said. “So, painting one is his wife’s perspective on Paris, painting two is his viewpoint. Timothy is still booked for two more jobs. What do you think he’s going to do next?”

“I don’t know,” Ahmed said. “And I think it’s too soon for us to jump to that conclusion of yours.”

“Why?” Jacob asked. “What do you mean?”

“Cause even in that painting supposedly drawn from his wife’s perspective,” Ahmed said. “There’s still a bit of his view of Paris bleeding into it like we discussed.”

“Okay, and?”

“Well, Jacob,” Ahmed said. “I feel as if there’s a bigger picture we might be missing.”

…

The next job was going to be a tough one. So tough, in fact that most of the people who were out here doing this job because of criminal records were put off the team and replaced with experts. The people who were still doing community service were still allowed but were relegated to minor roles. Why?

They were out here given three days max in a traffic intensive road. If they weren’t done in three days, Council was going to catch a lot of shit, the people who lodged the complaint would be looking for someone to blame and unfortunately for Jacob, his name was printed right next to the label supervisor in the papers.

Jacob hoped to God Timothy would be able to finish his next painting. He wasn’t sure about what he’d do if he didn’t but Jacob was sure Council wouldn’t like it.

The three days passed by in a blur. Timothy was relegated to the side of the road and throughout the past three days he seldom took a break. Whenever Jacob saw Timothy he was painting. Even when everybody else was eating lunch, Timothy just nibbled on his sandwich and went back to work.

The way Timothy rushed through it made Jacob anxious, what if it didn’t turn out the way he wanted it to turn out? What if it didn’t make the same emotional impact the previous paintings did?

Jacob didn’t have to worry. The dreaded day finally came, they all started scattering for the night. Jacob sent them all off, doing his usual routine of removing the cones and redirecting traffic. After that, he walked over to where Timothy started his painting, he almost couldn’t see it but painted within the golden line of the road was a patch of white that stuck out like a sore thumb. Jacob had to squat to see what was on it and when he did, he figured out immediately who the subject of the painting was.

His wife, painted in a white dress that trailed. Jet black hair painted across the golden line. Her face was basked in a golden glow. For all what it was worth, she looked beautiful in this painting. For what it was worth, it was a good painting.

Then why didn’t this painting have the same impact on Jacob that the other ones had?

…

Timothy’s wife had died of a brain tumour. By the time they discovered it, it was too late and poor Timothy had to watch his wife deteriorate.

“Thanks for letting me see this, Faisal,” Jacob said.

Faisal nodded, his stethoscope almost falling off his shoulders. “Sure thing, Jacob.” Faisal was a doctor friend of his from college. Chance would have it that he had just landed a big job at the same exact hospital Timothy’s wife was booked in.

Samantha Charleston, huh? Jacob thought. Pretty name.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Faisal said. “It’s not like you to ask for a favour like this. An illegal one. Now Jacob, I trust you but…”

“Oh, it’s just City Council has some survey on diseases,” Jacob said. “And I’m going to be a part of it. Just thought I’d get a head start on my work; you know? Make sure I’m not swamped with supervising work and this.”

Dr. Faisal nodded. “Next time though, you come here with Council clearance. You got it?”

“Yes, sir, doctor sir.”

Jacob tucked the file back in place and left the hospital, wondering if Timothy loved his wife so much, why make such a generic painting of her like the one he painted on the road?

…

“Are you sure this is the same artist?” Ahmed asked.

“Yes,” Jacob said, increasingly exasperated with the question Ahmed was asking. “It’s Timothy. I don’t know how many times I’m going to have to get this into that…”

“Impossible,” Ahmed snapped. “How could he make a painting so… so boring? So… uninspired.”

“Uninspired how?”

“It’s a typical, shallow, lovey dovey painting,” Ahmed said. “A painting every lovestruck buffoon who can paint well does with their lover or girlfriend. It lacks the depth, the fine work of the previous paintings. Are you sure this wasn’t rushed?”

“Well, we did have a lot less days to finish work,” Jacob said. “Could be that.”

“I can’t believe the same artist who did those first two paintings did something so… so bland,” Ahmed said. “There’s complexity buried in the simplest of paintings but this is so simple it’s almost insulting. It… It’s shallow. There’s nothing more to peel behind it.”

Ahmed took a long dramatic sigh and slumped on his chair, tossing Jacob’s phone back to him. Jacob fumbled a little before he caught it. “Please tell me this isn’t his last painting.”

“Well, there is one more job this coming week,” Jacob said. “Small road, not many people use it. Council’s going to give us some leeway, so I doubt it’s going to be a rush job like this.”

Ahmed raised an eyebrow. “Wait, did you just say this coming week?”

“Yeah,” Jacob said. “Why?”

Ahmed slammed the table causing Jacob to flinch. “Dammit.”

“What the hell?” Jacob asked. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”

Ahmed let out another long, heavy sigh. He took out his hat, looking down mournfully. “I’ll be closing down shop and returning home first thing next week.”

“Home?” Jacob asked. “What do you mean home?”

“India,” Ahmed said. “I’m getting married to some Indian woman my parents arranged for me. I won’t be coming back here for a long time. I won’t be able to witness the last painting.”

Jacob didn’t really care all that much about his situation. “But what about your analysis? Won’t you be able to see the paintings like if I text you or something?”

“No,” Ahmed said. “I live in a village, there won’t be any good signal.”

“What about social media?”

“You think I’m going to let those gremlins at google sell my data,” Ahmed sniffed. “That means…”

Ahmed suddenly burst into tears. “That means this our last meeting you buffoon!”

Ahmed choked. Tears started streaming down his face. “I’m never going to see you again. You simpleton, you actual fucking idiot!”

Ahmed sniffed. “I can’t believe you were my only friend in this shitty city! You had the thinking capacity of an orangutan.”

Jacob had no idea what to do. He got up from his chair. “Look uh…” Jacob scratched his head. “I’m just going to leave you here, give you time to process all of this.”

Ahmed wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. “That was very unprofessional of me, I’m sorry.”

Jacob shrugged. “Don’t worry about it, we all have our moments.”

“Till next time, Jacob.”

“Yeah sure, next time or whatever,” Jacob said, closing the door to his office and breathing a sigh of relief.

…

The next few days were a whirlwind of emotion.

“Jacob you’re off the supervising team this time around,” the City Council director said.

“Wait… what?” Jacob spluttered. “On what basis?”

“Turns out the work you were supervising wasn’t up to Council standards,” the director said. “People also said you were unfocused, as if your attention was elsewhere.”

“C’mon director,” Jacob begged. “You gotta let me do this! You can’t just cut me off like this. I know those boys like the back of my hand, you can’t just cut me off.”

The Director sighed, clearly used to people begging like this. “I’m sorry Jacob, we already decided.”

And that was that. Jacob knew the other supervisor. His name was Joe Clear, he was a strictly by the book, hard ass. There was no way Timothy would be able to get away with his little paintings.

And Jacob was right. Not even two days within the seven-day time slot allotted to them and Timothy was caught red handed. They found his other paintings on the other roads and Timothy was charged with vandalism and defacing public property and Jacob was charged with him for negligence or whatever. That’s how Jacob and Timothy found themselves sitting side-by-side on the same bench at the disciplinary tribunal, waiting for their chance to be heard.

And sitting side-by-side, Timothy so close to him, there was only one burning question resting in Jacob’s head.

“What…?”

It didn’t seem like Timothy had heard him.

“What was the last painting?” Jacob asked.

Timothy stared at him blankly for a while and then he smiled.

“You a fan?” Timothy asked. His voice wasn’t what Jacob expected. It was deep and gentle.

Jacob chuckled awkwardly. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“I don’t think I’ll have time to explain,” Timothy said. “We’ll be expected in…”

“No, I have a general idea about what your paintings are about,” Jacob said. “I took some pictures.” Jacob chuckled again. “Then, I went to this guy; he was a bit eccentric. I think he had a few screws lose but he seemed like he knew what he was talking about when it came to art. He told me the first painting was not your perspective on France, the second was your perspective on it. He didn’t like the third. He said it was too simple, he called it shallow and…”

“I’d see why he’d call it that,” Timothy said, looking up at the roof. “Especially when he couldn’t see the full picture.”

“Full picture?” Jacob asked, suddenly curious.

“We talked about perspective, your uh… friend…”

“Please don’t call him that.”

“He’s right, the first painting wasn’t my perspective on France,” Timothy said. “I hated that place. There were rats everywhere, the smell was awful, and the people were unfriendly. My wife on the other hand, she loved it. In fact, she loved it so much she couldn’t stop talking about it. I always wondered how she could see someplace so awful as something so beautiful and she wondered the same thing about me but vice versa.”

“But what about the third painting?” Jacob asked. “That was your wife, correct?”

“Your friend is right,” Timothy said. “It’s shallow, it’s simple and plain but that was how I saw her.”

“What?”

“That was how I saw my wife.”

Jacob was confused. “I don’t understand. How can you say you found her shallow when you… you loved her?”

“I…” Timothy paused. “I did love her. I loved her very much but no matter how much you love a person you can never truly know them. No matter how much I love her I’ll never experience Paris the way she did, no matter how much I love her I’ll never know who she was ten years ago, I’ll never know who she was twenty years ago, more importantly I wouldn’t know if I’d be able to love that person from ten years ago as much as I love the person I knew. I love her but I’ll never truly love her because I’ll never be able to walk through her shoes, I’ll never be able to experience life the way she did.”

Timothy sighed. Jacob could see a single tear fall down his cheek. He didn’t know how to process that information and to be frank, Jacob didn’t think he’d ever know.

“One more question,” Jacob said. “Why paint on roads? You could’ve painted on any canvas but why roads?”

“Artistic integrity,” Timothy said with a sad chuckle. “To make a point.”

“A point?”

“Road paint is made out of the toughest stuff,” Timothy said. “That’s to insure it’s tough and durable and doesn’t succumb to the elements easily. The same can be said about us humans, no matter what happens to us we always keep pushing forward no matter what.”

“But road paint fades away,” Jacob said. “If it was always so durable, we wouldn’t need road painters.”

Timothy smiled. “Exactly. That’s exactly why I chose road paint, because like us, like everything it fades away.”

A voice crackled to life on the speakers. “Timothy Charleston, Jacob Normal, please step forward.”

From the Disciplinary Room at the end of the hallway, a man in a suit awaited them.

“But even when the paint fades people still stay in their lanes,” Timothy said, getting up from his seat. “Even when the roads have no signs, we can still feel its influence.”

Timothy went inside, Jacob followed.

“Isn’t that beautiful?” Timothy whispered.

Jacob followed the faded arrows on the floor that lead to the disciplinary room where his fate would be decided. Soon, there were no arrows. Jacob still followed the road anyway.

The End.