Star Woman in Love by Piera Sarasini

your inspiration. Nothing could distract your concentration from the prey of your attention. The dark waves of your chin-length locks had turned to softer curls in the damp air. You towered over the crowd of shoppers in Buchanan Street both for height and presence. The gentle loveliness of the East and the muscular beauty of the West were fused in you. You had an elegant, slow stride. You wouldn’t go anywhere without a drawing pad and a bag full of crayons. A celebrity in town: your eyes were on the pavement and your head was in the clouds. You wouldn’t go unnoticed anywhere.
    Glam World magazine had mentioned your visit to the city. Two young women whispered to each other when they recognised you. You didn’t see them, busy as you were digging up the bones of an ancient memory, a long-buried feeling that you wanted to forget and had been afraid to retrieve for a long time. It had caused you so much hurt.
    “I turn you into shapes and colours as liquid as sunshine,” you had thought on a dark night. “If I give you a name, a hue, a sensation, I will become your master and you won’t rule my life anymore...” 
    That’s how you took up painting: to escape the demons of your past. You were twelve then. Thirteen years later you’d become the youngest artist to have a monographic exhibition in the prestigious Situchi Gallery, the coolest place to showcase and sell one’s work. The rest is history. Many Hollywood stars bought your paintings and sculptures. The world fell in love with you. You became an overnight success. Three years on to that date, you were in town as the star guest at the vernissage of a joint exhibition by Glaswegian artists. Life was wonderful. You were the centre of attention, and that was good. But an important someone was still missing from your life, and that bothered you. You felt incomplete on your own, which made you think about things you wanted to forget. Unbeknown to us, our paths were pulling us towards our first encounter.
    The two girls called you. You turned and noticed them.
    “ The blonde’s hot. Mega boobs.”
    They asked for your autograph. You were used to being stopped like that. Even that kind of ‘worship’ was a call for love, from both sides. People took photographs. A small crowd gathered around you. Fans asked you about the usual question. Was it true that Layla McIntyre was going to be at the opening? Were you dating? How was your experience in Australia? Did you really go on a walkabout with an Aborigine tribe for three months? Did it give you a different perspective to your work? Was that the inspiration behind your latest production?
    By means of a reply, you said: “Is that what you want to believe?”  You were everything but verbose. You could now sense a sudden magnetic pull in your chest. Your Native Australian friends had taught you to listen to this kind of heart-intuition. Ignoring the crowd of admirers around you, you turned your hazel eyes to the passing clouds in the sky, tilting your head back a little as to let the rain kiss your neck.
    “New feeling. Very strong. I can’t think of any event or person clearly associated to it... Wow...”
    Yet there was a familiar je ne sais quoi in that sensation. What was it? Who was it? As soon as a sense of recognition registered in your mind, the impression was gone and all you could hear was the rumbling of your stomach. You’d not eaten since lunchtime on the day before. Noon was approaching again. A coffee shop came into the focus of your glance: “Soul Food.”  Heaven-sent, obviously. It was a picture of prettiness made of lime green tables and pink chairs. You stepped in and sat at the only vacant table. That’s when you saw me. Months later, on a romantic night, you told me that your heart had barely beaten in my absence up until that moment.
    * * * *
    “Oh my God! Cassie, can you see him?! He’s sitting in front of me, and he’s looking in our direction... Oscar O’Leary... I can’t believe