I woke up between cool white sheets, stretched out on Ethan's side of the bed. Soft, familiar music drifted into the opened door from the kitchen under the clinking of dishes and running water. Laying on my back, I recalled the night before with a twinge of regret. It might have been porn for what I felt was a good performance on my part- the dangerous, cooing tease whispered in his ear, the salaciousness of every exaggerated movement- tossing my head back and begging him not to stop. Maybe I assumed that once he was fucking me he'd call me back with his body, reassure and resurrect what had expired between us. I couldn't feel anything, though, but guilty while I had lain afterwards, tangled in his limbs, held tight to his chest. He must have carried me to bed after I had fallen asleep in his arms.
Pulling one of his sweatshirts over my rumpled clothes from last night, I sat down at the table, taking a sip of his lukewarm coffee.
"Good morning, princess." I caught the sudsy kiss he blew in my direction, still basically asleep.
"'Morning."
I didn't want to eat , and rarely do in the morning. I examined his fruit bowl, though, as he didn't allow me to fast under his watchful eye. It was a fact that was initially warming, and grew to make me feel as though I were a personal charity project instead of his girlfriend. I chose a peach that looked ripe in its warm, summery colors.
"Georgia-grown." he drawled, noticing my fruit of choice as I bit into the soft, fuzzy skin.
"Fuck off." I had to laugh at his impersonation as juice ran down my chin. I had been from a boring southern suburb before moving for college. My accent was almost completely abandoned by the time I met him (thank God) but he still liked to watch me squirm when I mentioned it.
"So what's on the agenda today?" I watched him dry his hands on a dish towel.
"Oh, you know, " he dragged out a chair, "a few engagements. I have to meet a client today, but other than that, I'm all yours."
"I have an appointment, too." I grinned, feeling worthy of some sort of praise. It wasn't often that I had someone call in for a portrait on reputation alone and was relieved that I could mention this small victory. It was crippling at times to watch Ethan's easy success while I struggled to make a full-time occupation of painting.
"That's great, sweetie. Anyone I know?" he beamed.
"Oh, uh, I don't even know her: Sara-something. I'm finally going to use that 46 x 58 you helped bring up the stairs. She called yesterday before I came over, wanted to make an appointment.
"When is that, then?" he took a sip of his coffee.
I glanced at the digital clock on the stove.
"Fuck. I need to go right now." I got up, pulling off his sweater and he followed me, watching me as I found my skirt near the couch, offering advice as to where my other shoe might've gone.
He shook his head, kissing me quickly in the foyer.
"How do I look?" I straightened my clothes fretfully, examining myself in the mirror.
"Anxious." he smoothed my hair back. "Relax. I love you. Drive safe!" He called after me as I slipped out the door.
I was taken with her from the moment I saw her, an attractive blonde looking skeptically down at a scrap of paper and up again at the number of my door. Even in her uncertainty her features were striking. Hers was a classic beauty that reminded me of black and white films and antiquated speech patterns.
"You must be Sara." I extended a hand, wishing I had worn something more conservative to Ethan's the night before. She looked at me and her face was a pleasantry breaking a sweet smile.
"Oh, Yes. Cadence, right? I thought maybe I had written down the wrong number." Her speech and demeanor was radiant in a sort of intoxicating propriety that didn't seem to belong in the fluorescent-lit hallway.
"I am so sorry I'm late!" I felt completely disorganized, sloppily thrown together, especially in her perfectly manicured appearance.
"It's no problem, really, I haven't been waiting for any time at all." Her voice was all warm sugar.
Painting her was a pleasure; she was a visual feast that I think few people can truly appreciate. Her fair skin looked like it'd be silk to touch, accentuating her shocking, blue eyes as they focused in some owl-eyed amusement. At rest, her face looked something of mischief and good intentions. The contour of her body could only be called elegant even in repose. She was the sort of model that inspires masterpieces and strikes envy into those around her. I was no exception, true, but I was more absorbed in translating her beauty into soft hues on canvas than anything.
The spilling of oil onto canvas and reproducing a radiant woman posed patiently had me entranced. I am not able to lose myself so completely in any other trade as when I do when I paint, and it's a trance I can rely on to ignite me and burn hours at a time uninterrupted. When reading or running or any other activity that is mine alone, I am all too aware of myself. The characters in a book are there, and they are real, but I am only watching and they are removed, pushed further back into their fiction. When running, I am aware: these are my lungs expanding, these are my muscles stretching , and I am present the whole time. Whenever someone allows me to capture them on canvas, I fall in love with them a little. I learn them, find out all of their deepest sins and secrets. I read their face like a topographer and see them exposed in all of their truth and vulnerability. Painting them burns me alive, gives me a purpose. Sara, then, was my muse- my raison d'être. After all, what is an artist without her model?
We took short breaks every so often and she stretched and walked around my apartment as I gleaned little facts of her. She was a classically trained dancer and moved like it. She loved the theatre, opera, and wanted hardwood floors like mine. Her openness was disarming.
"I'm so enthused to be doing this," she confessed, taking a long sip from her bottled mineral water, her voice low with a secret. She talked on as I squinted at the light reflections and highlights on the silky fabric of her emerald green blouse, my eyes jumping from her to the painting. I listened intently, absorbing her and she slipped from the stool she had been perched on for the past hour, stretching, and slipped out of her heels.
"Let me see." She leaned in, half bent to me in a spark of excitement.
"I usually don't unveil my work until it's done . . ." I tried to protest, not completely pleased with the work accomplished in the short amount of time with her.
"Please?" her smile warmed me with glowing insistence.
I gestured, defeated, for her to come around and took a look, and she stepped lightly, like she was intruding something sacramental.
"Oh, Cadence!" her low voice simmered in a note of surprise. "It's fantastic!"
"It's not even closed to finished, I felt myself blush. I've noticed that those who don't paint are easily impressed by what they haven't tried to do.
"I knew you were good from the painting you did of Julian, but this is so . . . I guess because it's me, I'm a little biased." She babbled on, giddy, returning to her stool, obediently.
She continued, but any meaning was blurred.
"Sorry, what?"
"Oh, I thought he would have told you. My fiancé wanted me to get my portrait done; I saw that painting in his apartment the other morning and he seemed so eager for me to make an appointment. Oh, I'm so glad I did. I was excited before, but. . ."
I could barely make sense of the onslaught of words tumbling from her mouth in every haphazard way, my mind clouding over.
"Yeah . . ." I managed, "See, I don't really know him. We just met the other day."
She nodded, smiling, "He told me."
As if to call a break to the scene, her cellphone started chirping for her; the wedding march was calling her out of her reverie.
"Oh, I have to . . ." she excused herself, glancing at me in some wide-eyed request of permission.
"Hello? Oh, oh, no! Yes, well it's
supposed
to be kosher. No. Really. I'll be right over."
He told her about me. I thought of them cuddled together on her couch, watching some pathetic romantic comedy. Oh, yes, she'd like that. He'd endure it, too, because he was a doting and loving future-husband.
"So I met one of my neighbors the other day." he'd tell her, casually, "A real slut! She found my bondage gear and, as luck would have it, she wears my collar now!"
She glanced at the clock behind her and turned to me. "Oh! Is that time right?"
I honestly didn't know how far off left or right the hands were, but didn't see how I could explain it to her at the moment.
"Yes."
"I'm so sorry-You'll have to excuse me, Cadence; I have a rehearsal dinner emergency and it's all a mess." she smiled apologetically.
"No," I shook out of my stupor. "that's fine."
"Maybe we could finish this some other time? Soon?"
"Yes, of course, you have my number. . ." I managed, watching her hurry out.
I began to swirl the brushes I had used in mineral spirits, watching the colors mix into a hazy gray, but even that simple act was too much.
God!
I stared at the canvas. The magnanimity of her beauty, her presence, even though I felt I hadn't done it justice, dwarfed me. The whole situation made me feel ridiculous. Sara. His Sara. The same woman who wouldn't sleep with him until they were married was just in my apartment, captivating me, sitting with her face titled just so. I felt ill thinking of how desperate and completely out of control I must come off as to Julian, something completely disposable, just a secret. He had the best of both worlds maintaining his understanding, supportive fiance status while bedding the desperate neighbor who was commemorating her beauty in oil. He didn't try to hide the fact that he was engaged, true-never said he cared to begin with. Still, though, it hurt me in a way I didn't know he could touch, and the fact that I still wanted him despite the fact only fueled my anger.
It was late and I was about ready for bed when I heard a rapping at the door: Ethan, of course, no one else would come knocking so late. I answered in a t-shirt and panties, my toothbrush still in hand.
"Come here." Julian linked his grip around me and pulled my hips against him, dropping a kiss on my lips. "I missed you."
