Closed my hand, I thought

love is like a painting. Clichéd, unsurprising. True. A little blot or a smudge or a drip can blossom and grow. Something that is illegible suddenly clears. I saw Picasso’s ‘Woman with Yellow Hair’ during a holiday in New York. At first, I hated it. Hated the simplicity and bluntness. But the more I looked, the more I saw. And suddenly, without warning or effort, I fell in love. Fell in love with a painter. Love is like a painting.