The Desperate Man

His life was not all it was cracked up to be. Despite his talent, wit, and charm, he found himself irrevocably alone. Broken-hearted. Time and time again. As he inched closer to thirty trips around the sun, he felt himself destined to a life of solitude and anguish.

He put his all into his work. Breaking his back, his hands, and his soul to create art worthy of kings and queens. Patrons paid him well monetarily, but he was yet to get the payment he so desperately desired. The affection of Delphine. Her demanding nature made her ever-the-more irresistible to he.

Delphine was a baker's daughter. She was funny, kind, and carefree. He bought bread from her father every week just to get a glimpse of she. She never seemed to notice his advances, and if she did, she didn't make it obvious. Her unattainable nature made her all the more alluring to the poor artist.

With every stroke of the brush, the artist poured his heart onto the canvas.

"Delphine," he spread some deep green into the background of his latest piece.

"Delphine," he placed delicate strokes of dark hair upon supple, vulnerable skin. Keeping the brush dry enough to deliver every single, explicit detail therein.

"Delphine," he caressed the canvas with two fingers, sliding his hands in a downward motion, connecting his DNA to the oil medium. Blending, shading, and giving his heart away with each touch.

"Delphine..." He would soon be done.

Though the model in front of him was not his muse, he often pretended it was she. He gave every inch of himself to this piece. He would label it, "The Origin of the World." And surely, this creation would show his undying appreciation for the woman behind the bakery shop window. Surely, he would win the girl.

The week of its completion, the artist made his routine visit to the bakery. With head held high and flowers in hand, he approached the man at the counter. He swallowed his pride and looked the father dead in the eye. He could not flounder.

"Monsieur," said the artist.

"Oui," replied the baker, while pounding dough with his fist.

"I would like to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage." The daisies in his hand wept into his nostrils, and he could sense the evening of their wedding on his tastebuds.

But Delphine was nowhere to be seen on this fateful, autumn morning.

"Young man," started the baker. "My daughter has been betrothed to a wealthy baron from Sezanne."

"I see," the painter did his best to keep his voice calm, though his insides were reeling. Unnerved and unfeeling, his fingers grew cold. The daises wilted beneath his touch.

The painter left the familiar bakery empty-handed, even though the baker offered his weekly ration for free. The painter couldn't bare to eat. He vowed to never step foot in that building again.

He wanted to flee Paris. He begged God on both knees to take him back to his love, Delphine. But the Holy Spirit never answered. Instead, the painter pushed 30. He painted. He collected coins from willing buyers. And he grew weak. Searching, every day for a love that couldn't be beat.

It would never come, and his romantic soul grew bitter. He screamed into the silent, cold nights of winter. The skip in his step ceased to leave the ground. He moped around the streets searching for what he had lost, but she was never found. He became a realist and accepted the hand he was dealt. But he'd think of Delphine every time the snow began to melt.