Episode Three
1172 Words
GRAVITY OF LOVE
The days had grown colder since the gallery opening, and with them, My thoughts had taken on a new restlessness. I spent my mornings sketching by the bay windows of my apartment and my nights painting until the soft hum of the city faded into silence. The memory of Jones Brown's deep voice and the lingering weight of his gaze often crept into my mind, interrupting my focus like a paint smudge on a finished canvas. I had told myself it was nothing — a fleeting moment between strangers. And yet, it stayed.
On a Saturday afternoon, I tucked my sketchpad under my arm and walked to my favorite coffee shop nestled on the corner of Hamilton and Rose, a small, eclectic place called “Café Glànd.” The owner, Martina, knew my order by heart—hazelnut latte with a dash of cinnamon—and always saved me at the corner table near the window.
I pushed through the glass door, a bell chiming above me. The rich scent of roasted beans, vanilla, and fresh pastries wrapped around her like a comforter. It was a small haven of warmth amidst the city's chill. I placed my order, offering Martina a smile, then turned toward my usual table—only to collide directly into a solid figure.
The impact sent my latte cup tumbling, the lid popping off as warm coffee sloshed against my light cream coat. I gasped, staggering backward, mortified.
"Oh no, I’m so sorry!" I exclaimed, frantically trying to brush off the coffee with a napkin.
“No, please—it was entirely my fault,” came a familiar voice.
I froze.
My eyes lifted, and there he was. Jones Brown. Impeccably dressed in a charcoal gray coat, a soft black cashmere scarf wrapped casually around his neck. He had the same calm intensity, the quiet command of someone who never needed to raise his voice to be heard. His dark eyes scanned my face with something between recognition and curiosity.
“Allison,” he said smoothly, as if my name had been tucked away on his tongue this whole time.
"Jones," I breathed, too stunned to mask my surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
His lips curved into that subtle smile I remembered. “Neither did I. Yet, here we are.”
I chuckled nervously, still dabbing at my coat. “I think I just baptized myself in caffeine.”
“Let me make it up to you,” he said, already guiding her toward a nearby table. “Another cup of coffee, perhaps?”
I hesitated. Every rational part of me warned me to politely decline. But I didn't. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe the flutter in my stomach, but I nodded and said, “Alright.”
He returned with two lattes and a small plate of almond biscotti. “You looked like you were about to sketch something,” he said, nodding toward my sketchpad.
I followed his gaze. “Yes. I come here to draw sometimes. Helps clear my head.”
Jones leaned forward slightly, his fingers grazing the edge of her sketchpad. “May I?”
I hesitated, my breath catching. Sharing my finished work was one thing, but letting someone — especially him — peek into my raw, unfinished sketches felt oddly vulnerable. Still, I slid the pad toward him.
Jones flipped through the pages slowly, eyes intent. “You see people in a way most don’t. Their moments. Their pauses. You don’t just draw their faces — you capture their quiet truths.”
I blinked, startled. “That’s… actually how I think of it. I never say it out loud, though.”
He met my gaze. “Artists don’t need to say things aloud. They say them with their work.”
They fell into conversation, the rest of the café fading around them. Jones spoke about art with a surprising amount of knowledge — referencing obscure painters, discussing color theory, even talking about brushwork as if he’d been to every gallery in Europe.
But just as I began to settle into the ease of our conversation, he said something that made my heart skip a beat.
“I meant what I said the other night,” he murmured. “I'd like to see more of your art. Would you be interested in showing me your studio?”
I stiffened slightly. “My studio? It’s not really—public.”
“Nor should it be,” Jones replied. “But I’m not a stranger anymore. Am I?”
His voice was calm, but the question pressed into me like a hand on my spine. I glanced down at my coffee cup, the steam rising between them like fog. I wanted to trust him — his presence was captivating, his words magnetic — but something still felt just out of reach.
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “We’ve only just met.”
Jones didn’t push. He simply nodded. “I understand. You guard your world. That’s what makes your art honest.”
My lips twitched at that. “You’re good with words.”
He leaned back in his seat, fingers tapping the ceramic mug. “I’ve had to be.”
The conversation shifted to lighter topics — favorite books, places in the city, a gallery exhibit coming up next month. But I couldn’t stop wondering what Jones meant by had to be.
Eventually, we stepped outside into the late afternoon. Snow had begun to fall, dusting the sidewalks with soft white specks.
“I’ll walk you home,” Jones offered.
I paused, then nodded. “Alright.”
As we strolled the few blocks to my apartment, a comfortable silence settled between us. Jones didn’t try to make small talk. He simply walked beside me, his presence warm and steady.
At my building, I turned to him. “Thank you. For the coffee—and everything.”
Jones studied me for a moment. “I meant what I said in the café. I’d like to understand your world.”
I searched his face. “And what if I’m not ready to share it?”
His answer came without hesitation. “Then I’ll wait.”
And then, just as I turned to go inside, he added, “You can reach me if you change your mind.”
He handed me a small, cream-colored business card with nothing but his name and a phone number. Simple and Elegant.
I slipped it into my coat pocket, unsure of what I would do with it.
***
That night, as I stood in my studio alone, I pulled out the card and stared at the name etched in fine black ink. Jones Brown. What was it about him that drew me in like gravity?
I set it on the table and turned back to my easel—only to gasp.
Someone had moved one of her canvases.
Her heart pounded.
No one had been here. No one should have been.
- Writer
