The assignment? Choose a photo and write based on that photo.

The photo I chose is Young Lady in a Boat by James Tissot (above).

Dear god, but she was bored. BORED. BOORRREEEEDD!

She’d thought she’d been bored when she agreed to this.

She’d had no idea what boredom was.

This was not how she had intended the afternoon to go.

It was far too hot, for one thing, and the vegetation in the water smelled.

So did the dog.

How on earth had she ended up here?

It was supposed to be a bit of fun and maybe a bit of….well…something else…

She’d seen him around, of course. Everyone thought him a bit odd, the way he stared. Odd, but harmless, they all agreed.

She’d been surprised when he’d talked her. He stared a lot, but almost never spoke.

Would she meet him, he’d asked.

She’d made a joke about finally hearing him speak, but he hadn’t seemed to hear her and she’d felt a bit foolish.

Would she be willing to meet him, he’d asked again, he needed her.

Needed her? For what, she’d asked.

He ignored her question.

Would she meet him?

Curious, and glad for anything that might fill a few of the endless summer hours stretched out in front of her, she’d agreed.

By the lake, he’d said, tomorrow morning. And left.

She’d arrived at the lake to find nothing but an old row boat, a suitcase, and a note.

“Put these on”, it read, “and be very sure before we start. This is the most intimate experience a human being can have. Most people can’t handle it.”

My summer’s definitely looking up, she’d thought.

Determined to ‘handle it’….whatever ‘it’ was…she’d found a spot in the trees that was mostly hidden from view and opened the suitcase.

She wasn’t sure what sort of clothing she had been expecting…but it wasn’t this. It was long….very long. With a high neck and long sleeves and….a bustle? Really? He must have a history fetish, she’d thought, and wondered just how you could have an ‘intimate experience’ with all this clothing.

She’d changed into the dress. At least there’s no hat, she’d thought. Much too hot for a hat.

She’d walked back to the lake, holding the fabric to her chest, unable to secure the dress in the back. He was there. The boat was filled with fabric and pillows. There was a small dog sitting nearby. The dog turned to look at her, sighed, and turned its face away.

Without speaking, he’d walked behind her and fastened the dress.

Then he’d handed her a hat.

He’d led her to the boat, helped her in, turned her round to face him, and that’s when she’d noticed the easel.

You’re painting me, she asked. You said this would be an intimate experience.

There is nothing more intimate, he said. I’ll be looking at your face, but I’ll be painting your soul.

Aw, crap, she thought.

He positioned her this way and that, handed her flowers, took them away. Handed her a fan instead. Yelled at her when she started to use it. It seemed to take ages before she was able to hold a position that was acceptable to him.

Once he had her settled to his satisfaction, he whistled, and the dog appeared. It stepped daintily into the boat, placed its paws gingerly around her dress. She thought it must have rolled in something unpleasant, because it reeked. When it got to the back of the boat, it turned around and sat. Damned dog got its position right the first time. Bitch. She smiled at her joke. He yelled at her again.

He spoke while he painted, she discovered, talking to himself when he wasn’t yelling at her.

She thought his brushes must be powered by his tongue, because he was never quiet.

She started to doze in the heat, he yelled because the angle of her head changed.

The fan started to slide from fingers slippery with perspiration, he stomped over and replaced it muttering under his breath, about incompetence.

The day got hotter.

The lake got smellier.

So did the dog.

She looked longingly at the flowers that he’d finally placed on the bench in front of her, leaning ever so slightly forward in hopes of catching their scent. He yelled again.

She was tormented by the sweat running down her back, her neck, her face. She risked sneaking her little finger up to catch a particularly annoying drop of sweat that had reached the corner of her lip. That was a mistake. He told her to keep her finger there. That was an hour ago. Now her hand was cramping up.

She thought about pretending to faint.

But – she had nothing else to do.

The dog yawned. She sighed. The dog sighed with her and she felt a brief connection to the wretched animal, but it passed.

He wanted to paint her soul – so be it.

The Soul of Boredom.