She stumbled over her own bare feet, holding her broken heels in her left hand and a limp handkercheif in he right. Reeking of Whisky any passerby would assume that she was nothing more than an alcoholic, not that she had been involved in a brawl earlier that evening in which a glass had been thrown over her crinkled blouse.
The wind cuaght her firey locks and swept them back from her wide eyes, showing an obvious attempt to wipe away the never ending tears. So gentle; had she truly deserved such an abrupt closing curtain? Why was fate so cruel; so cruel as to lead her into the sights of two brilliant young minds such as Thorpe and Wise? These two men were lounging casually upon a bench across the street from this poor maiden and had been watching her for a few minutes now.
The younger of the two, Arnold Wise, a shy young fellow who was barely out of his teenage years was the first to comment on her dishevelled performance.
'So beautiful. So desperate for love,' he had gestured secretely towards her in a code that only his companion would understand.
'How do you mean?' asked Thorpe after a long hard think about her, 'She's a nervous wreck.'
'Exactly, my friend. She displays a kind of raw emotion that you are incapable of. She explodes with passion, wearing her joy, her regrets, her sadness like a coat. Can you say you agree?' Wise breathed with an excited genius.
Gregory Thorpe shook his head slowly, keeping his dark eyes fixed on their subject, 'You are right. But I wouldn't have described it as a coat.'
Wise sighed with irritance, 'Neither would I, you fool. You know that with a canvas I could create an image of her that would destroy you and your critisisms. That it why I do not make up stories for a living.'
Thorpe ignored this insult and continued to watch the girl. She was so elegant but so oversome with sadness, like a bird trapped in a cage. You see, Mr. Thorpe and Mr. Wise werent just brilliant for their ability to observe peoples actions; they were Artists.
Gregory Thorpe was a writer of sorts. He could write long and complex essays that explained Quantum Physics, or he could create poetry and stories that brought tears to otherwise dry eyes.
Arnold Wise however, was not a writer. Arnold Wise was a painter, sculpture and hopeless romantic. He understood perspective, tone, cubism, fauvism, print-making and set-design, but more importantly he understood emotion.
'Alright,' Thorpe declared, 'Let's make a bet. We will both create a piece which shows the true image of that girl, and whomever creates something better will be the better of us. Agreed?'
Wise nodded, continueing to watch as this auburn haired beauty stumbled on. Suddenly he rose from his seat and darted between traffic and various other obstacles until he stood before her, glaring directly into her amber eyes. He saw a quiet flame behind her tears that sent a chill through him. In that moment, as their eyes met, everything fell into place and somewhere in Paris an old clown's heart stopped beating.