✧ Signe Holmström ; — Ft. Charlie Hughes ⟢ - Blog Posts

Signe   watched   him   carefully,   catching   the   tenderness   in   his   face   as   he   talked   about   his   mum.   When   he   said   he   couldn’t   wait   to   call   her,   her   smile   softened.  “That’s   really   sweet.   I’m   sure   she’ll   love   that   you   thought   of   her."   But   then   he   asked   about   her   designs,   and   she   could   practically   feel   her   walls   go   up.   Her   hand   smoothed   the   hem   of   her   shirt,   a   nervous   habit.   She   laughed—soft,   and   a   little   awkward—and   ducked   her   head,   letting   her   hair   fall   forward   to   hide   how   off-guard   his   genuine   interest   had   caught   her.   People   were   usually   politely   curious,   not… excited.  “I   mostly   do   sketches,”   she   said,   waving   her   hand   dismissively.   “I’ve   put   a   few   things   together,   but   I’m   still   building   my   portfolio.   I   haven’t   really   shown   many   people…”   Her   thumb   traced   the   strap   of   her   bag.  He’s   probably   just   being   nice.  Still,   when   she   glanced   back,   his   eyes   were   bright,   no   hint   of   teasing   in   sight.   That   steadiness   nudged   something   loose   in   her.  “…But   if   you’re   really   interested,   I   could   show   you   one   of   my   mood boards   sometime?”   she   offered,   unsure   but   hopeful.  She   found   herself   giggling   despite   herself   as   he   joked   about   football   being   an   art   form.  “I   don’t   know   that   I’m   an   authority,”   she   said,  “but   if   it   makes   people   feel   something,   I   think   an   argument   could   be   made.”   Her   eyes   shone   as   he   tried   pronouncing   her   name   –   the   words   coming   out   a   little   clumsy   but   filled   with   more   effort   than   most   made   to   get   it   as   close   to   the   authentic   pronunciation.  “I’m   not   one   to   judge   accents,”   Signe  smiled,   gesturing   at   her   herself.   Even   after   years   in   the   States,   her   Swedish   accent   still   slipped   out   sometimes.  She   allowed   him   to   tell   her   about   his   passion   for   cooking   –   about   nostalgia   and   Italy,   and   found   herself   utterly   charmed   by   his   sincerity.  “Oh,”   she   exhaled,   his   invitation   to   spend   more   time   together   catching   her   by   surprise.   Signe  blinked   rapidly   before   answering   him,   almost   shyly   and   more   quietly   than   she’d   intended.  “Yeah.   I’d   like   that.”

"You're not wrong at all. I might have to ask her if she actually likes flowers.. Besides, you know, gettin' em for Mother's Day and stuff." His face softened as she talked about the beauty and color. Charlie's mind drifted to where they'd lived when he'd grown up; all brick buildings, broken gutters and hardly a touch of color on the streets. A council estate where beauty wasn't a main priority. "You're.. Huh.. You might be spot on there. I can't wait to call me mum later and chat about it." Charlie's eyes lit up at the mention of fashion. "You jokin' me? You have to show me some of your stuff. I bet you're great at it."

"Now I'm just gonna keep askin' ya if things I enjoy are art. And if it's about how it makes me feel, football was.. I guess it still is my favorite art form?" He laughs at how corny it sounds, "I might take that back. Somethin' about an athlete sayin' they're an artist.. Nah." Charlie's laugh continues, "I cringed at meself." He waved his hands in the air in an effort to erase his words.

"Signe." He repeated, his accent thick, "I promise I'm tryin' to say it like you, but there's no gettin rid of this." Charlie pointed to his mouth with his free hand, looking down at their other hands still together. As he glanced back up, she'd been standing closer, his features all softening at their proximity. "Well, I work at Mango Bay Restaurant.. So I'm always tryin' to come up with some of those more fancy dishes." He pauses, chewing down on his bottom lip as his smile widened. He slowly released her hand, nearly forgetting it was there. "But at me apartment, it's all comfort food from back home. Or- honestly, I think I cook for the nostalgia, yeah? I miss my mates from Italy and suddenly I'm makin' homemade pasta. Goes for anywhere, innit. I just love bein' able to put myself back somewhere with just a taste. Like that guy from Ratatouille." He paused, "I ain't gotta be in for a few more hours.. If.. Would you like to walk with me? We could talk more about your fashion and you could tell me what I'm supposed to notice in all these."

She   smiled   softly,   glancing   towards   him.   “Well,   there’s   still   beauty   in   that   too,   isn’t   there?”   she   tilted   her   head,   playfully.  “Your   mum   might   not   be   arranging   bouquets,   but   being   surrounded   by   all   that   life   and   color   still   leaves   an   impact.”  At   his   question   about   her   muse,   her   gaze   focused   back   onto   the   canvas   before   them.  “Fashion   stuff,   mostly,”  she   began,   her   tone   casual   and   slightly   downplaying   just   how   much   all   that  ‘fashion   stuff’   meant   to   her.  “Fabric,   textiles   –   I   sketch   and   make   my   own   designs   –   not   for   anyone   else   yet,   but…”  Signe   shrugged,   leaving   her   sentence   unfinished.  The   girl   watched   as   he   stepped   forward   to   study   the   painting   a   little   more   closely,   and   she   allowed   the   silence   to   stretch   comfortably   as   he   made   his   own   assessments   of   the   piece.    When   he   turned   back   to   her,   all   honesty   and   charm,   it   made   her   smile   without   meaning   to.  “That’s   the   thing   about   art,”   she   said,   tucking   a   strand   of   her   unruly   hair   behind   her   ear.  “It’s   not   about   knowing   what   you’re   looking   at,   it’s   about   how   it   makes   you   feel.”   Signe   shifted   slightly,   turning   to   face   him   more   directly.   “And   for   the   record,   food absolutely   counts.   There’s   so   much   emotion   in   taste.”   He   introduced   himself,   and   a   playful   smile   curved   her   lips   as   she   reached   out   to   shake   his   hand.  “Signe. Sing-neh.   But   you   can   call   me   whatever   sounds   right,”  she   joked.   Still   holding   his   hand,   she   leaned   in,   lowering   her   voice   to   a   conspiring   whisper.   “So,   Charlie   the   Culinary   Artist,   what   kind   of   food   are   we   talking?   Tiny   towers   and   edible   flowers,   or   greasy   comfort   food?”

Charlie held a gentle smile as the girl explained the piece wasn't painted by her, "That's lovely. What a cool way to pass on an interest. My mum works at this garden center, but more like 'the soil's over here' and less of the beauty of flowers, I guess." He lets out a soft laugh as he glances between her and the painting, "What's your medium then? If this isn't it, what's your style?"

The way that she'd spoken about the painting had Charlie's eyes immediately focusing more, his feet taking a small step forward to get a better look at the colors. "I would've never even thought about somethin' like that. Don't always know what I'm supposed to be lookin' at when I look at a paintin'." He turned on his heel, attention back on the girl as his head shook, "Honestly? I know nothin' about art. Never grew up really interested, but livin' here it's impossible not to stare. Now I'm definitely someone who appreciates it, really. I can't-.. Genuinely, can't draw for shit, let alone do anythin' close to this." A shrug lifts on his shoulders, "Unless you consider food art. You could say that's my medium." He jokes, holding his hand out towards the girl, "I'm Charlie."

Signe   observed   the   unfamiliar   man   curiously,   his   easy   smile   and   warm   energy   holding   the   kind   of   casual   charm   that   made   friends   out   of   strangers   quickly.   His   accent   caught   her   attention   first,   and   then,   finally,   she   registered   the   question.   She   laughed   softly,   shaking   her   head   sending   her   wild   curls   flying.  “No,   no,   this   isn’t   my   medium,”  she   replied,   a   polite   smile   gracing   her   lips.   Although   he   didn’t   say   she   was   in   his   way,   Signe   stepped   aside   anyway   to   give   him   a   better   view.  “It’s   gorgeous   though.   I   was   just   thinking   it   reminds   me   of   something   my   mom   studied   –   she’s   an   art   history   professor.   I   can   already   hear   her   commentary   in   my   head.”   She   cleared   her   throat,   slightly   embarrassed   that   it   took   her   all of two   seconds   to   mention   her  mom   while   talking   to   a   handsome   stranger.   Signe   tucked   a   piece   of   hair   behind   her   ear   and   refocused   on   the   painting.  “You’re   right   though,   it’s brilliant.   I’ve   been   trying   to   figure   out   how   they   got   the   colors   to   look   like   that,”  she   murmured   the   last   part   almost   to   herself,   once   again   losing   herself   for   a   few   too   long   moments   before   she   resolved   to   experiment   later.   Signe   glanced   back   at   the   man,   curious   now.  “Are   you   into   art,   or   just   wandering   by?”

There was little Charlie loved more than having a free day before his shift at the restaurant. He'd spent time in some of the most beautiful places in the world, but the charm of his new home called to him. On days when he didn't have to be in until dinner he'd sleep in, cook himself a ridiculous breakfast, and pick an area to roam. Today's pick was Mango Bay, considering it was the same neighborhood as his job.

He'd already gone to a few shops before walking towards the art district. While Charlie did have a few talents, art was not one of them. He hadn't grown up in an area where it was appreciated, or at least not in his house. His mother spent the majority of her time working to pay for his blossoming career and when his father was around, the last thing they'd speak about was art. But on days when he'd walk home from training, he'd always stare at the murals; the ones left by graffiti artists that would be painted over soon enough, and wonder who'd made them.

Now, living somewhere that art had been celebrated, he'd tried to immerse himself a bit more. He hadn't realized that his mind was wandering, his eyes stuck on a canvas, until he'd heard a voice speaking to him. "Wh- Oh! Oh, nah, sorry." Charlie's head shook quickly, lifting his hand to point at the painting she'd also been admiring, "It's brilliant, innit? Did you paint it?"