I turn on the overhead lights that flood the space, turning the night into a bright day.During the day, the abundant light from the glass walls and skylights ensures good illumination.At night, I tried to replicate that by having the architect design powerful spotlights everywhere.
My supplies are where I left them.Brushes stick out of ceramic jars.Tubes of paint lie on a wooden table, arranged by color.I brush my fingertips on the stained surface of an old palette.I run my fingers over the bristles of a brush.
My hands aren’t shaking.
The memories aren’t rushing back.
The weight of guilt isn’t stealing my ability to breathe.
But now, standing in the middle of my studio with the lingering warmth of Serena’s body clinging to my skin, I am steady.More importantly, I am eager to paint.
She did this, I realize.She’s brought art back to my life.
I set up a fresh canvas on the largest easel.I select my colors without conscious thought, muscle memory making up for years of dormancy.Titanium white.Burnt sienna.Prussian blue.The amber that matches her eyes.
The first stroke of paint against canvas is hesitant, experimental.The second is bolder.By the third, I’m lost in the rhythm, dominated by the push and pull of creation.I focus on the colors, blending them and separating them.I focus on the image that’s taking shape beneath my fingers.
I don’t paint the ghosts this time.
I paint Serena.
The curve of her cheekbone.The intelligence in her eyes.The way her lips quirk when she’s about to say something naughty.The softness in her expression when she looks at me like I’m worth something.
Hours pass.I don’t notice.
I just paint.The portrait takes shape stroke by stroke, each touch of the brush to the canvas an act of devotion.I’ve never been good with words.But this...this I can do.This I can offer her.
The first hint of dawn creeps through the skylights, painting the studio in shades of rose and gold.
“Gosh, that’s gorgeous.”Serena’s soft gasp cuts through my concentration.
I spin around, brush still in hand.She stands in the doorway wearing nothing but one of my button-down shirts, the hem falling to mid-thigh, her dark hair tousled from sleep.The morning light catches the amber in her eyes, making them glow.
I was so absorbed in my work that I didn’t hear her footsteps on the stairs, didn’t notice the door opening behind me.
Now, her gaze is fixed on the canvas and on her own face, rendered in oil paint in shadows and light that I created.
“I didn’t hear you,” I say, setting down the brush.
She moves closer, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor.Her eyes never leave the portrait.“I woke up, and you were gone.I came looking.”
She stops beside me, so close that the lingering scent of sex on her skin teases my senses.Her fingers reach out, hovering just above the wet paint, tracing the air over the lines of her own face.
“Is this how you see me?”She whispers with a note of amazement.
I study her studying herself.The portrait captures part of her essence.There’s the fire, the intelligence, the determination.
“It’s far from complete.It’s only the beginning, actually.But I can’t quite capture all that I see in you,” I admit.“Your soul, your heart are too beautiful, too complex.The canvas isn’t big enough.”
Serena tears her gaze from the painting to look at me.Those whiskey eyes are bright with unshed tears.
“Shelby...”
“You gave me this,” I continue, the words spilling out before I can stop them.“I haven’t been able to paint in years.Not since Syria.Every time I tried, the ghosts took over.But you...”I reach out to cup her face, my thumb brushing away a tear that’s escaped down her cheek.“You gave me the fire to create again.You silenced the ghosts.”
She leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.When they open again, they’re filled with light.“I remember seeing you with easels and brushes back in the day.”Serena turns back to the portrait, her expression thoughtful.“Will you finish it?”
“If you’ll let me.”I step closer, wrapping an arm around her waist from behind.She leans back into my embrace naturally, like she was made to fit against me.“Maybe if you model for me, I can get it right.Capture what I’m missing.”
