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It's not wet outside but that does not stop Sadie from wielding an umbrella over her shoulder. It isn't perfectly clean or fancy around here like Midtown. That doesn't stop her from beautifying the place by defacing a perfectly nice abandoned building. A plastic bucket full of coloured chalk rests on a step stool. The ground remains of a stub of chalk currently fill out a swirling motif. Not happy rainbows there, but rather a landscape of soaring mountains and fields at their feet.
Forge drives into the city in his Ford Galaxie, on the way to Westchester. But seeing a woman doing art, apparently, he gets curious. Pulling up, stopping, rolling down his window and hanging out to look.
The umbrella dips black and bright in the sunshine. Sadie stoops to grind in a few green smudges atop the pastel golden landscape in progress. The chipped paint and weathered brick of some long abandoned textile factory polishes up well under her diligent efforts. After a few minutes filling in a field in a base layer, she tosses the stub of the chalk aside in the bucket. Time to fish out something else, which she does while humming to herself. A pretty tune even if it doesn't have words, floating up and over the limited noise of the city. No telling where she managed to get so much blue chalk from, but she carries three sticks in one hand. Turning to the rumble of the engine gives a sense of her profile at least. Black dress, bare legs, very fair skin. An ankh shines at her chest, the sliver of metal bright in the sunshine that reaches her. "If you're looking for Waldermann's," she cheerfully says, "you're about fourteen years too late."
Forge decides to get out of the car. Chuckling, he leans his metallic hand on the hood of his car. "No, I was just admiring your work," he smiles.
"That's why it's here," Sadie says. She continues to scribe the outline of a river in meandering blue curves traced against the bricks. Enough maroon and worn-out stone disappears that only the pitted texture shows through, the plenty of grains tumble into the sidewalk from the scratching. The umbrella obscure the view until the pale woman is done with any given section. But she steps aside. "Enjoy yourself."
Forge probably spends as much time admiring the artist as he does the art, though, leaning on the car, watching, smiling. "You don't always see pleasant things in the city. Good on you."
"Really?" The accent she holds is surprisingly familiar, slanted with just the barest hint of something exceedingly rare. The jet black hair might be a clue on that front. "I see sorts of beautiful things on my walks. People put out flower boxes and paint. They tidy up the little corners. Or those colourful displays of oranges and flowers." Her mouth lifts. A bright smile burns into her expressive features, her eyes crinkling at the corner. The curlicue painted over her cheek doesn't much move.
Forge nods, leaning his hip on the car now, folding his arms across his chest. Seeing how happy she gets at all these small things, he nods. "AGain, good on you. I suppose artists spot things the rest of us do not."
The umbrella twirls around in her slim, chalk-coated fingers. They spin the long metal pole, shadows gathering around her in a gypsy dance. "I don't know. I've always had a good eye for finding pleasure in everything." Her dark eyes smile while she speaks, and she confers with the chalk in the bucket. Poking around, she comes up with a bit of a soft buttercup yellow and a bit of bone white. Mixing them up to smudge in a rocky cliff will occupy her in a moment. "You're saying you don't spot many pleasant things?"
Forge admires the umbrella a bit now, focusing on it as she continues to make her little moves with it. But he's a man of stillness, at least for the moment. "I lost my hand in the war. I don't say that fishing for sympathy. But… I look at the world differently since then."
"Yes. Pain and loss change the way the world looks." Sadie's voice gets a bit softer, her smile easing back from blinding bright to a dawn light creeping over the city. "It tends to make things a bit more precious, sometimes more wistful in memory. I hope it hasn't diminished your capacity for appreciating there." The chalk scrapes on the stone, leaving thin lines as she presses down firmly. Colour bleeding on a sea of deep red. "Your perspective has value too. Like spices in a dish. So many of those to try."