He fell to his knees in front of her, pawing at her skirt.
“Please,” he said,”Make something, anything, just so I can witness it.”
She looked down at the disturbance at her feet, saw the fly that had landed there and with a flick of her dress tossed him aside. He was sent careening around the room, eventually stabilizing himself a few feet away from her.
He was dizzy and ashamed, but his need for her was greater. It had been so long since the day that he had first seen her create.
He had been buzzing idly through a room, when he had heard scratching from below him. He had lit upon a chandelier, so as to have a better view of the source of the noise and saw a young woman leaned over a large sheet of paper, moving her hand back and forth across a page, the pencil in her hand leaving behind swirls and shades of beauty. He had blinked his numerous eyes and floated down toward her for a closer look. He landed on the edge of a picture frame opposite her, his view no longer obscured by her head, but the image was now upside down and he still could not decipher the heart of it, just the cleanliness of the lines, the depth to which the pencil seemed to pierce the page, the freedom of her movement.
The woman sighed, laid her pencil on the table, selected a white rubber from beside her, rubbed sharply at a particular point on the page and then blew on the page, sending stained crumbs of rubber spilling across the table and onto the floor. She leaned back, picked up a pencil, different than the one she had been using, made a few small adjustments and rose from her seat. His chance had arrived, and he did not hesitate to take advantage of it. He leaped from the picture frame, swooped across the table and landed on the back of the chair the woman had just vacated. Turning, he could feel his tiny heart beating in his tiny chest, as though the few snippets of the picture he had seen had caused his heart to grow, and now, so close to seeing the picture, his heart was growing by the very beat. He felt a sweep of wind as he turned, heard the crinkle of paper and, in the blur of his turning eye, saw the woman walk away from the table, the sheet of paper in her hand. He had been too captured by the grandiose of the moment, and now had missed his chance to bear witness to the model of beauty that he had only sniffed at the edges of.
Ever since that day he had frequented the woman’s house, hoping he could see not only a finished piece, but could witness the birth of beauty. He could never create as she so easily did. His attempts were always feeble, not truly creation, more like a smashing together of un-ordered objects, not a thing that anyone could wonder in awe at, least of all himself. No, his truest joy came from her and what she could do.