The Soul of An Artist

"With my paint box at home, I can make every color imaginable. Pink. As pale as a baby’s skin. Or as deep as rhubarb. Green like spring grass. Blue that shimmers like ice on water.’[She] stares into Peeta’s eyes, hanging on to his words. ‘One time, I spent three days mixing paint until I found the right shade for sunlight on white fur. You see, I kept thinking it was yellow, but it was much more than that. Layers of all sorts of color. One by one. I haven’t figured out a rainbow yet. They come so quickly and leave so soon. I never have enough time to capture them. Just a bit of green here or purple there. And then they fade away again. Back into the air,’ he says Peeta.

She seems mesmerized by Peeta’s words. Entranced. She lifts up a trembling hand and paints what I think might be a flower on Peeta’s cheek.

‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘That looks beautiful.’

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