The Artist's Scheme

The artist gazed across the deck of the ship, assessing the distance between the railings in brush strokes.

It was an absurd thing to do. Which is why the artist did it. Such a mental exercise would surely produce a look of a pensive, perhaps pained, melancholy on the artist’s face.

The trap was laid. The artist’s tortured soul the cloying bait.

The stewardess was looking. The artist admired his own scheme. The stewardess approached. She moved quickly, with purpose. Her hand stretched towards his arm. The artist spoke. ‘To bed?’

‘Yes.’ She replied. ‘It will help with the seasickness.’