Your hands don’t look like an artist’s.
They’re a bit stubby, rather. Your nails are awkwardly cut and your palms are a bit rough. Your knuckles are naturally dark; they look like the souvenirs of hard-won fights many years ago (which they kind of are, really). The lines of your palms are defined and solid, each with their own story to tell. A thin, almost faded scar has sunk onto the map of your left hand, almost unnoticeable if not examined closely enough.
You flip your hands over, examining the back. A bony-yet-wide hand leads into some wrinkly fingers. You sometimes wonder why they’re like that (no one else you’ve noticed really has fingers like yours). On your right hand, curving along your index finger is the story of broken glass from a friend’s house when you were eight, a dramatic moment in which your mother began to panic a little and in which you were fascinated by the white flesh that lay under your skin. It ended with a trip to the hospital, where an amused doctor removed the ten-bandage-thick layer of protection you created for the cut that you were very proud of.
Another pair of hands comes to mind. They seem so real, gracefully and gently encasing yours within them. Softer than cotton, pale and long and double-jointed. Perfect nails with little half-moons that finish them off perfectly. Slender fingers that link with yours, almost highlighting how rough your skin is in comparison to theirs. You try to forget about that, attempting to turn around and focus on the canvas that stands behind you. Physically, you can’t. The hands that you were just imagining weren’t imaginary at all. They squeezed yours a little, and you look up into the face of their owner.
A quirk of the perfect lips accompanies your surprised expression, and you feel your face heating up a bit. The mouth the same colour as your face feels widens, exposing some slightly crooked but still wonderfully white teeth that make your heart skip a bit. Freckles that seem to have been masterfully selected and placed by no other than a higher-power being follow the curved lines of cheeks that make way for a smile.
Your heart isn’t just beating now, it’s full-on thudding. Unconsiously, your mouth forms a little circle, in awe of who stands in front of you.
The hands that still hold yours is what you’d imagine yours ought to look like, with features that look like they were made to create artwork to last the next few millennia.
Sans paint, of course.
They’re actually bigger than your own. Your palm easily fits into their own, like two puzzle pieces coming together.
But these weren’t the hands of an artist, not today. They were the hands of a muse, inspiration for you.
Sometime later, your hands are still the same, yet you feel like you wouldn’t want any other. You look at your canvas, satisfied with what you’ve done. The glowing radiance of your model, the way the sun hits the face so perfectly it looks like the ascension of a spirit.
It is, to you.
You stand up, smile, and go to wash the ink off of your hands.