Driving to the studio he thought about the day ahead. Tuesday... she would be there. Daphne, your A-typical goth, leaning a bit towards the old world Victorian style, lots of soft black velvet and silk ribbon accents. She is all curves, unlike the oh-so-fashionable stick-thin model types that throw themselves at him, and that he uses proudly as trophies. She has full breasts, that could only be described as voluptuous, and hips that were built to have a powerful man pressed against them.
He walked in to the studio, every other woman in the room looked up, and smiled. He knew he looked good. He was twenty-five and in the prime of health and always well dressed, though his clothes were generally paint or clay speckled. He smiled acknowledging the women, then there she was sitting in front of her latest work in progress completely encompassed in the canvas she didn't so much as glance up at him. She was imitating the strokes she would put on that day, getting a feel for the length and spacing before she touched brush to paint, technique he had found himself trying as of late.
He was somewhere near six feet tall, with broad shoulders, but a slight build and tapered waist, he had found his heart in an art class he had taken for an easy grade in high school, which is why he had opened his own studio out of business school. He had the grace of a jungle cat, either ready to pounce, or taking long powerful languid steps knowing he had real strength.
He walked across the large open room purposely passing her taking in the scent of her natural spicy perfume and that purely feminine odor that brought out both carnal desire and the carnal urge to protect her, though she struck him as someone who didn't need to be protected. Technically he was teaching an advanced oil paint workshop, but as with most advanced classes it was spent working on his own latest project and occasionally walking through the studio commenting on color choices or brush strokes, he probably learned more in these classes than the students did.
He sat in front of the clay and began to work. A woman's form emerged. He wasn't surprised it had been months since his last date let alone actual physical contact with a woman. Not from lack of opportunity but from lack of interest in those opportunities. He had found that a lot of women took his beginners classes to get close to him, this disgusted him, it felt as if they were discrediting him and his studio acting as if it were a single's bar instead of a place to learn and create.
He looked to his wrist and after wiping damp clay from the face found that two and a half hours of the three hour class had flown by. He sighed and stood washing his hands and then kneading his shoulders, tense from concentration. He made a pass around the class talking to some of the familiar faces and making a special effort to compliment the newer students.
He walked up to her last, as was his custom, he couldn't bear to rush through even the briefest of contact with her. "Daphne," he said, slowly savoring the word.
***
As usual his voice slid through her, a soft glove. "Hey Eric," she said, not looking up from her work, two more long fluid brush strokes then she sat the brush down and lifted her hands to the back of her neck to soothe the aching muscles, just as he had done.
She turned and her breath almost caught she looked up in to his deep brown eyes. "Every damn time," she scolded herself, she knew better.
"Do you mind if I stay for a bit after class? My touch seems to be just right today for some reason." she said, tucking an errant strand of wavy auburn hair behind her ear.
"No problem," he said, "I had planned on staying late anyway."
"Thanks," she said, turning back to the canvas, not being rude just eager to continue her work. She was just out of college and couldn't afford a decent studio area of her own, even on timeshare, so she had to do all of her larger pieces here.
She put her headphones on and danced in place as she painted, the music helped, especially when everyone was gone, being the middle of seven kids she wasn't used to the quiet.
She worked quickly and lost track of time. She had just come to a stopping point when her favorite song on the CD came on for the third time, she put down her brushes, admiring her days progress, she didn't normally like her work but this one was special. She was happy and closed her eyes, surrendering to they rhythm of the song and dancing. She imagined dancing with a lover to this song, and when she pictured this lover it turned out to be Eric, she just kept dancing, a smile playing on her lips. He found his way in to a lot of her little fantasies.
She imagined him walking up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist moving with her, though he couldn't hear the music on her discman, she imagined his lips falling to the place where her neck and shoulder met and him nuzzling his lips there, not a kiss, just an affectionate gesture.
Suddenly she was startled realizing someone was behind her and that her backside was pressed against him. She pulled off the head phones and laughed, not a giggle a full laugh she didn't believe in giggling. "Eric," she said, the laugh still in her voice, "I think I lost myself for a moment."
She heard him clear his throat and was worried she had made him uncomfortable. "No," he said, a bit hoarse, "I just was wandering how much longer you'd be not that I'm rushing you, just it's almost eight and I didn't want you to miss an appointment or something."
"Oh I didn't realize what time it is." She had been there for two hours after class ended.
"Like I said, no rush, just wanted to let you know."
"Thanks, i just hit a stopping point actually."
"It's coming along nicely," he said, she followed his eyes trace the lines of the paint, her lips curved in to a small smile, he was always so sincere. "Can i ask you a question."
"Sure," she said, dipping her brushes in to the turpentine and wiping them on a rag.
"I can't help, but notice that your clothing style and painting style seem incredibly different. Why is that?" he asked.
"Well," she said, pausing to get the right phrase. "I'm not exactly content with the world at large," she said, another pause, "But when I paint, when I create I can make that world that works. I know it's a bit naive, but in there," she gestured to the painting, "I can be however I want, naive even."
"I understand perfectly," he said.
She smiled at him, sweetly, doubting his actual understanding. He seemed so... average, a great artist, but not the tortured soul type, more of the idiot savant.
