The Masterpiece
Without it touching her, his palette knife skimmed the finest hairs of her neck, and she closed her eyes as she followed it down her spine. Her robe lay puddled at her feet, and she listened to him whisper to himself as he noted her form. Propped against an easel, a fresh canvas waited for his initial sketch, but when he moved around her body, his whispering stopped. His warm breath caressed her ear. He brought the knife under her chin, but his eyes were on her profile. As his gaze intensified, she closed hers and felt the bounds of her awareness mixing with his. It shouldn't have surprised her when he trailed a paintbrush from the well of her neck to her navel, but it did. She hadn't expected to become the canvas.
"You come to me every week. I've painted you half a dozen times, yet I still don't know you. Every time I see you, it's like I've never seen you before." He lifted his eyes to hers, and she smelled the sharp tang of the oil paint. "I should have your body memorized."
As he circled her breast with vermilion, her nipple hardened, and she watched as he crossed her chest to connect an infinity.
"Perhaps I need to taste you to understand you?" He bent his head, and the tip of his tongue lapped the underside of her breast before taking her nipple.
At his gentle sucking, her belly contracted, and she realized she had stopped breathing. "I..." Her mind blanked, completely focused on his mouth and breath. With both hands, she cradled his head, torn between pushing it away and pulling it closer. She wanted nothing more than to kiss his mouth, but she knew he didn't see a lover before him, just a body.
Through the window from the street below, a shopkeeper shouted a greeting to his neighbor. Afternoon light glittered across the pigments she had helped him grind and mix that morning. As if waking from a trance, he jerked away and shook his head.
"You have me under a spell," he said. He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving a touch of red against chestnut.
"Should I leave?" Fearful of his answer, an invisible hand gripped her chest. She knew he should say yes.
"No."
The hidden flame in her heart suddenly flared beyond her control. "I think of you," she said. "All the time. You're in my every thought." All emotion left his face, and she realized her mistake. She had said aloud something that could only have continued to exist unspoken. Now, she had killed it. "We can have this. Just this. Can't we?"
"No. There is no this."
His words took the hand around her heart and twisted. Anger pushed tears from her eyes. Anger? She had no right to be angry. This realization didn't keep her from crying; it only compounded her embarrassment. They were both artists walking a fine line. She knew better.
Without another word, he left the studio, and she stared out the window. After a moment, she looked down at her chest, remembering the soft bristles and his enraptured face, his spirit mixing with hers. She hadn't imagined his touch or his words, but she had imagined meaning where there was none. Professional curiosity. Appreciation of beauty. Hadn't she done the same a thousand times before? And kept her soul to herself.
Behind her, the door slammed, and she resisted the urge to look at him, though she could hear him breathing and pacing.
"It's the oldest story-- look at Manet with Victorine. He's not even trying to hide their affair from his closest friends anymore. It's disgusting-- a painter and his model."
Piqued, she turned to face him. "Neither of us is married like Edouard." Then her voice rose. "And I'm an artist in my own right, as you very well know. So is Victorine."
He glanced at her and grimaced.
"Sure, my work isn't welcome in the Salon, but neither is yours. We both have a home in the Salon des Refusés." She bent to pull her robe to her chest. "And damn you, I'm not some cheap, half-whore taking her clothes off for money. I let you paint me because I am beautiful. We both love beautiful things. We see beauty everywhere and are compelled to capture it. To share. You and I are the same."
