The Artist (1986)

She entered the shop. The blaring, neon OPEN sign had beckoned her to enter the shop. The Artist. Maybe, it was the usage of the article 'the' that had awoken something in her, something that had been dormant for too long.

Her red hair was twisted into a bun. Strands of curls were purposely let lose to frame her face. Green eyes scanned the shop- stopping at every artist, every painting, memorizing every detail of this heavenly place. Her eyes stopped. In the back corner stood a boy- most likely her age- and unlike the rest of the artist he wasn't staring wistfully at his work, as if in another world. No, he wasn't staring at the canvas in front of him. He was staring at her.