Cup-o-Noodles

Ok. My first shot at short stories. Here it goes :o)

He sat back in his small boat and sipped on his beer. It was a beautiful night. The sky was filled with stars and the breeze was gently blowing across his face.

Today was the anniversary. 7 years back, he had started his small shop in Stanley market, selling paintings. Paintings, imitations, all kinds of stuff, from all Chinese artists and painters, contemporary and medieval. His shop wasnt one of those which rustled with customers all the time, but he sold enough to make a good living. He had married 4 yrs back and had a beautiful loving wife. He planned to buy a small house far away from the city, but that would have to wait.

But today, sitting alone on his boat, he wasnt thinking of his shop.

12 years earlier:
The boy completed his art school with flying colours. He stood first in almost every painting competition. But it wasnt about winning or money that made him paint. When he stood in front of the canvas, felt the texture with his fingers, he could visualize wat was going to be in his mind. He lost count of time, hunger, everything.
Painting was his first love.

He set up a small studio in his rented room. From his savings from working part time in Mc Donald's, he bought canvases and colours. He had decided. He will paint for himself, and sell only to people who admired his art. He got himself a small roadside stall in Stanley market. The idea of selling his art on the roadside stall wasnt appealing, but he was sure in a few years, he would be able to afford a nice shop. He didnt use water colours. He despised it. He used oil colours on a canvas of different kind. It was much more difficult and more expensive than water painting. But it was his passion he was investing in. His love. And soon, he wouldnt have to think about money since his paitings would fetch the right price.

He sold his first painting. It was was small piece of art, showing a chinese girl, lonely in her garden. It was richly coloured and the expression in the eyes of the girl was what showed her loneliness. It was beautiful, and he felt it was one of his better creations. The buyers were an English couple. They bargained with him for almost half and hour. And finally bought the painting for half the price he had quoted. He would have never sold it. But they were the 4th set of customers and the others were not even willing to pay half the price. The landlady had asked for rent almost 3 times and the look on her face told him that there wont be a 4th time.
When he got the money, there was a mixed feeling. One of happiness and sorrow. Happiness, because this was his first income from living his passion. Sorrow, because he didnt appreciate people bargaining for his paintings. Didnt he put in hours of sleepless nights and hungry days to create these beautiful creations? But he knew times would change.

After paying the rent, he had just enough money to buy his regular food for weeks now. Cup-o-noodles. He didnt even recognize the taste anymore. But then, all this would change. He knew it.

Days went by. Weeks. Years. Everytime he sold his paintings for a price lesser than they deserved, he felt he had betrayed himself. He felt these people are not here to appreciate the art. They just wanted something to hang up on the walls of their living rooms. He felt deceived. But times would change.

It had been 5 yrs. He still lived in the same room. After paying for the rent, and for the canvas and colours, he had just enough to survive. No patron had ever come his way who really appreciated his art. This wasnt something they taught in art school. All those prizes he had won. All the applause, the appreciation...was that a lie? He sat in his small stall thinking.
That night he closed his stall, and walked back to his room. It was a very silent night. He had heard the shopkeeper of the next stall saying there is going to be a storm. It was a long walk back to his room. He reached the store where we bought his groceries from. He knew his way well inside the shop. He always walked the same way to the cup-o-noodles rack. But today wasnt like always. He walked around the shop. Not really looking at anything. He didnt want to go to the cup-o-noodles rack.

He walked out of the shop. He walked to the ferry piers. The wind was strong. It was beating against his face. There was a restaurant just across the street. The aroma of delicious dim shum filled the air. He made a decision. He ran to his room. Folded up the canvas, put the brushes and paints in a bag. It was enough. He had had enough. He walked back, fast, determined, to the ferry pier. One last look at his love. And without a word, he threw it, with all his might, far into the sea.

He stopped painting. He got the imitations of other paintings, paintings that would look beautiful in the living room. He quoted high prices, and then brought them down to make a nice margin. Soon he moved into a new shop.

Today, 7 yrs later, he sat thinking about that day when he had given up his passion. He had let the world take away from him his first love. He had compromised.

He wanted to take a walk. He walked along the ferry piers. He didnt know where to. He just wanted to walk. He came across his regular grocery store. He didnt have to buy anything. But still he went in. He wandered around the store. He stopped in front of a rack. He stood there for a minute or two, picked up a cup-o-noodles, paid and left.