A flash fiction about paint

The picture was in Gareth’s head, perfect with vivid clarity. Now he just had to bring her to life.
First, he prepared his canvas, covering it with an even layer of delicate peach. Next came a bold sweep of black, making the green eye doubly brilliant against its white background. Then a skilful touch of pink, soft as childhood laughter, and her complexion was alive. Gareth lingered over her cheekbones for a moment, delighted and enraptured by their compelling symmetry.
Finally, he took the thinnest brush, and filled in the warm expanse of lip. He had thought scarlet at first, but that would be wrong. He chose a quiet brown-red, not too glossy.
Finished. Gareth stepped back, and gasped. She was beautiful, even more beautiful than she had been in his mind. He looked at himself in the mirror again. Gareth was no more. Giselle lived.