The Painter of Dreams

London was relentless today. Icy drops of rain battered my umbrella, and angry swaths of gray swirled in the bleak sky, hanging over the city like a curse. I trudged through the slick streets, making my way to my flat on the other side of town.

Coffee. I needed Coffee. Something to stave off this lingering cold. To ward off the exhaustion settling in after a long week. I gripped the handle of my umbrella, imagining the welcoming, eclectic interior of my favorite café, only a few blocks down. The streets were bustling with commuters now, each one sloshing through the rain-splattered sidewalks to get to the nearest pub for an early start to their weekend. But my evening would start with something far more comforting—a smile from my favorite barista and an Americano with my name on it.

I turned the corner, arriving at the shopping strip where Au Petit Café was waiting for me, when I stopped in my tracks. It was gone.

In its place, stood a shop I had never seen before. It was made up of all wood and neutrals, pine floors and white walls under a studio glow, with empty stands clustered in the center of the space. But it was what was outside of the shop that made me pause.

Behind a thin wall of glass, three paintings were displayed, seemingly suspended in air. The one on the right featured sweeping hues of spring greens, revealing a vast meadow that seemed to span on endlessly. I felt my breath catch as I scanned its landscape. Speckled among the fields were hundreds of marigold flowers, glowing softly. The flowers looked as if they were swaying in a warm breeze, and I felt a weightlessness swell inside me as I stared into the golden petals. I felt as if those marigold blooms were calling out to me, as if I was warmer already just by looking at those textured strokes of yellow.

I opened the door to the shop, spying a young woman sitting behind a counter. She had cropped, jet-black hair, and was humming along to something playing from her earbuds, unfazed by my presence.

“Excuse me,” I said, too quietly.

No response.

I cleared my throat, trying again. “Excuse me. What is this shop?”

Slowly, she removed her headphones. She glanced up at me with grey eyes, framed by electric blue eyeliner. “I mean, is it not obvious? It’s an art studio,” she replied flatly.

“I know, but I mean. I don’t understand. There was a café here before. This—when was this built here?”

“I don’t know anything about a café. But my dad bought this space about a month ago. He’s an artist,” she said, as if that was enough explanation.

“But there isn’t any art in the store...I don’t understand.”

“He does commissions. Custom orders. He only paints certain things,” the girl said.

“What does he paint?” I asked.

“Scenery, mostly. But I guess it depends on the customer,” she mused. “He paints places people want to be. Where they can imagine themselves being happy, I guess,” she replied, fiddling with a stack of receipts.

Maybe it was the dreary weather, or the exhaustion from the week weighing on me. But I knew I couldn’t leave without the painting I saw outside. That warmth, that enveloping comfort I felt when I stared into those golden fields…

“I want that one. Not a custom one,” I said, pointing at the painting of the marigolds.

She glanced lazily at the display window, incredulous. “I mean, okay. I’m sure he can paint a replacement easily enough. That one’s just for show.” She walked over to the front of the store to retrieve it.

“How much?” I breathed, afraid of the answer.

She returned with the canvas, and began wrapping it in a glossy, waxy paper.

“I mean, I really don’t know. We don’t usually sell display pieces,” her face was unreadable. “Why don’t you just take it as a sample. If you decide you like it enough, come back in for a commission. I’m sure he’d be fine with that.”

I had to stop myself from gaping. “Thank you, I—I really appreciate it. I don’t know what to say.”

She met my eyes briefly, an expression flashing on her face for less than a second. Was it amusement?

“We’ll consider it an investment in a future customer. Happy weekend,” she said, handing a large paper bag to me. “Try to keep it dry.”

When I got home, I hung the painting on the wall above my dining table—which was a generous term for it. It was really more of a breakfast table, with just one chair tucked beneath a paint-chipped mahogany table. But the painting brought new life to my little nook. I smiled, feeling satisfied with myself, as I headed to my bedroom and crawled under the covers.

---

That night, I dreamt of the marigold fields. I opened my eyes to those vast plains of green, breathing in air that felt pure and clean, carrying the fresh scent of flowers on it. Standing in the spring breeze, I looked down at the rows upon rows of yellow, vibrant flowers. My white linen dress flowed around me, and I felt full. Full of life, of unrelenting warmth. I tumbled to the ground and the lush grass tickled my skin. As I rolled over on my side and grasped at one of the flowers, I tucked it behind my ear, and childish laughter bubbled out from my chest. I peered up at a clear, blue sky, and spread my arms out behind me, letting the sun soak into my pores.

For the first time in a long time, I felt peace.

----

I woke up feeling groggy and hazy, opening my eyes to a too-bright room. I squinted in the daylight, and my bones seemed to ache. I sleepily dragged myself out of bed, slipping my feet into a pair of slippers. As I looked down at my legs, I could have sworn my skin looked a shade tanner.

I reached for my phone, and it lit up, illuminating my face as it revealed 14 new notifications. 10 new texts, 4 missed calls. Two of which were missed calls from my boss. Oh no.

But before I could return any of the calls, her name appeared on my screen. I swiped to answer, feeling lightheaded.

“Miranda? Everything okay?”

I could hear her sighing in frustration.

“I mean, yeah, Chalyse, all is well. I just thought I’d give you a ring and see if you were going to make it into work any time soon?” her voice was laced with irritation.

“Well it’s...it’s Saturday morning. I didn’t realize…”

She cut me off. “Chalyse. Seriously. Have you been drinking?”

I felt my face burn, my stomach turning over. “What? N-no-I…” I blinked hard, scrambling to push the lock button on my phone. The letters came to life on screen: Monday, September 6. 11:00 a.m.

My breathing became heavy and a rock lodged in my chest. How did this happen? I had fallen asleep on a Friday night. How did I lose 48 hours?

She heaved another sigh. “Look, I gave you a second chance. But please, please, don’t make me regret it.”

She hung up.

---

That evening, after work, I found myself walking the winding streets that led back to the art studio. I’m not sure what it was that drove my feet forward, or what I was expecting from another visit. Maybe I was going insane, making connections where there weren’t any. All I knew was that painting was the only thing I could remember from the two days that were stolen from my memory. I might have been grasping at straws, but I had to do something.

When I swung the door open, the young woman was sitting behind the counter again, waiting. Her raven black hair swished around her tiny frame, barely brushing the tops of her narrow shoulders. This time, she noticed me immediately. “You’re back,” she said, with a tinge of surprise.

“I’m back,” I echoed, cursing myself the instant the words came out of my mouth. What was I doing here? What was I hoping to find? I almost turned back around out of sheer embarrassment, before she spoke again.

“My dad brought some more samples to the studio, to help you decide what you might want next.” She gestured to the glass display cases that lined the interior of the store. Once empty before, now each of them donned a canvas. There were three in total.

One featured a cottage, with intricate details and glowing rooms, standing atop a hill overlooking an abundant garden. The other depicted a family of four, smiling, hand-in-hand, sharing a picnic in a field teeming with flora. The third, an attractive couple sitting close to one another, laughing at a dinner table, with a single vase adorning the center.

An uneasiness crept in as I realized what they all shared—what each painting had in common.

“Those golden flowers; the marigolds. They helped you feel less alone, right? Warm inside. Whole. You haven’t felt like that in a while, now that you lost what used to give you warmth,” she drawled.

Her fingers brushed against the glass cylinder encasing one of the paintings, her long nails scraping the edges.

“Sobriety can be so lonely,” she said, her voice twisting with fake sympathy. “But maybe it will pay off. Maybe you can get the life you want, eventually. If you keep it up.”

I stared at her, angry tears threatened at the corners of my eyes.

"Or, you could have it now. The family and friends who stopped speaking to you. The man who stopped loving you. You can get that all back. You could even have a guilt-free drink if you wanted,” she flashed a too-white smile. “And you can bask in those golden fields as long as you like. Much longer than a weekend.”

My head was swimming, my heart beating too loud in my ears. I burst out of the studio, sprinting all the way home without looking back once. I stormed into my kitchen, yanking the painting off the wall in one swift motion. Carrying it to the dumpster, I tossed it in with all my strength.

When I was back inside, I locked the door, slumping to the floor as hot tears streamed down my face and stained my sweater.

---

I didn’t take the same route home for months. Eventually, I dared to glance at where the studio once stood, only to find Au Petit Café back in its familiar spot.

As I stepped inside, the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans filled my senses and the comforting sound of espresso machines whistled away.

I silently prayed I’d never see a marigold flower again.