"Do I know you?" he asks.

"I don’t think so," says the stranger warily.  He is of a small, neat stature, with very yellow hair above his dark and shabby clothes.  "I wanted to see you painting."

"Ooh, a fan!  I would greet you properly—and offer you sweets and coffee!  But as you see I am painting right now.  And it would be a very bad habit for me to keep food and drink in the studio, I would quickly become a very fat painter!  Or a very dead painter, with paint and other definitely not-edible things near to hand, and it’s very easy to lose track when I’m concentrating, hm.  Right now I must continue to paint while the light from the window… would you mind taking, ah, three steps to the left? Grazie.”  He looks up from his easel again.  “You won’t be bored?  Have a look around if you like!”

"Thanks…"

"Ah—but, just there, don’t move—the light…"

"Oh…"  The stranger looks about his very immediate surroundings and lights on a small table covered, as is every surface in the room, with a heavy dusting of papers and sketches.  He flicks through the pile and stops at a rather poor charcoal of a horse in motion, drawn by an artist whose ambition outstripped his talent.  "Hey, look, it’s one of mine."

"Hm?  But… you’ve never been to one of my classes, or been here before?"

The stranger frowns down at the smudgy horse, chewing his lower lip.  “…It doesn’t matter,” he mutters at last.  “The thing is, as soon as I leave today you’re going to forget all about me.  I was here before.  But something happened and now everyone forgets, like I don’t exist.”

The painter’s brush deposits a blob of yellow in his chestnut hair as his hand flies instinctively to his mouth.  “It does matter!  How terribly lonely that must be.”

“Yeah.  Wait.”  The stranger’s brow furrows.  “What?  You believe me?”

"Surely!  Why wouldn’t I?"

"Why would you, it sounds crazy.”

"Well, I’m an artist."  He makes a little bow.  "Were we friends?"

"I think so."

The painter is torn between his easel and a desire to skip over and catch the stranger up in a messy painty hug.  He makes a few more quick strokes on the canvas.  “I suppose…” he begins, “have you ever heard of these stories, and there is a curse, from the gods, or a witch, or someone else, you understand…  You sound to me like you’re under a curse!  And so, shall I kiss you?  If you think that would help, I wouldn’t mind trying it.  I wouldn’t mind anyway.”

"Ohh, you are such a crazy artist.  And such a Florentine.  You suggested that before!”

"Did I?"

"Yes!"

"And…" He smiles mischievously, "did we?  It isn’t fair if you remember and I don’t, I want a full poetic description of the entire thing, I’m going to paint it—"

"No!" the stranger interrupts, flushing darkly and looking away.  "Like you said, you wouldn’t remember so, so it wouldn’t be fair.  And.  Anyway."

"…if we never tried it, how do we know that it might not break the curse…?"

“It’s not like that!!” the stranger explodes.  “And it’s not funny.”

"Oh, no," the painter says, instantly contrite.  "I know.  It’s not funny at all."  He concentrates on his painting for a while in silence.

"This sucks," the stranger mutters.  "Every time I leave you, it gets harder.  You’re always so nice and friendly even though I’m just no one.  Like, you’d be amazed at how many people are less than fine with letting a random stranger in for tea and dolci."

"Then, do you have to leave?"

"Yes."

"Let’s have a drink and something to eat first."

"I thought you were busy painting?"

The painter takes a deep breath, in and out.  “It’s finished,” he says.  “Come and see.  I admit I was kind of keeping you talking while I just finished the last things.”

The feet of the easel screech on the tiled floor as he angles it around. 

The stranger looks at the painting—and out of it.

The face in the picture a little fuller, less wan, his hair still brighter, and the painter’s brush has rekindled the dying embers of light in his eyes into blazing green flame, but it is indisputably the same face.  He looks at once older and eternally young, like an angel, and like the angels need to reassure us “do not fear" he instantly commands reverence. 

"But you can’t have done all this just now," the stranger breathes.

"No.  I’ve been working on it for weeks, a month."

"Then…"  The stranger sinks down onto a stool with his hands over his mouth. 

"I don’t remember you," the painter says, "I don’t remember you with my mind, and that’s strange, and I’m so so sorry, but I remember you with my eyes.  With my heart.  My paintbrush remembers you."

"This is amazing.  That’s me.  That’s totally me, right there, like, on a really good day.  And, I’ve never seen you painting before.  You did that when I wasn’t here.  You remember me!”

"Yeah!  Hey, are you feeling alright?  I forgot, I was going to get you sweeties and things, you must be hungry!  Hm, first…"  Quick as a flash he picks up his paintbrush and dabs two spots of paint on the stranger’s face.  "Bit of colour in your cheeks."

"Heyy."

"Sorry, I wanted to do that.  Since I can’t kiss you!  I’ll help you wash it off."

"Nah, it’s fine. It’ll be a talking point for whichever other of my friends that don’t remember me I meet today."

"Maybe I’ll remember you next time, properly."

"Maybe.  I don’t think so.  Will you… are you going to sell the painting?"

"Never.  I’ll keep it here.  I’ll keep it on the wall and look at it everyday."

"Thank you.  But… that’ll be pretty strange for you though, right?  I’ll just be there like haunting you, this face you can’t place."

"You do haunt me," the painter whispers.  "I don’t remember you, but I do know you.  I’m sorry for what’s happened to you."

"It doesn’t matter.  I mean, I’ll fix it, I definitely will.  I mean—it isn’t your fault."

"I wish I could do something to help."

So no hands at all now, no pressure brought to bear. Gently just lips touching it's a bit tickly but nice. I like you so. Come kiss me here, out in the open, the sky all around us. I know how you don't like to be trapped.

And then. Tell me what you like. Do you want me to touch you, kiss your hair or rub your back, is that good? stroke your cheek with my thumb -- don't cry. Sweetest, don't cry.

If it makes your hands happy, I like your hands in my hair; if you want to slide so neatly under my shirt that's fine too oh that's nice. If it makes your hands happy. If it makes your heart warm like mine is when you hug me, when we just hold on tight to each other.