Wanting to talk to him.
Wanting to be moved.
I stop for a moment and look around the studio where I’m sitting.
The space isn’t overwhelming in size. On the other hand, it isn’t exactly small either. It seems to have a personality all on its own.
When I first arrived, it was cloaked in darkness until he illuminated a small slice of his personal space to my eyes. Now, as I sit here on my own, I really have the chance to see his studio, and I realize that it’s a room that captivates me.
Splattered on the rough hardwood floors are obvious reminders of his profession. There are speckles of brown, white, and black mottled across the original wood floorboards. The floor’s being marked up in such a way must not bother him because he has left it as is. Maybe it’s even his way of making it his own.
The desk he has set up for me is old and wooden. It creaks every time I apply any kind of pressure to it, but like the room itself, it seems to fit. Pushed up against the right wall, it’s situated so that I can either face his chair, which is nestled into the corner, or I can turn to the window and the easel that is set up on the opposite side of the space on the far left.
The walls of the west turret have been built from brick that’s the color of burnt copper. It’s been left exposed on the interior of the studio, which I’m sure in the sunlight gives the room a spectacular glow. Right now, with the shutters closed and the room in shadows, it just makes the studio seem dark and volatile. Like a dormant volcano in nature, the room is silently smoldering but almost certain to one day explode in a blazing, fiery rain of heat.
I don’t sense that this is a place of joy for him. Even with the lights on, the room doesn’t feel bright or happy. No, it actually feels intense and somewhat intimidating.
In the soft glow of the light, this room seems to shimmer with an underlying passion I have yet to understand.A passion for art or a passion for her?I cannot tell which one it is yet.
At the moment, I am seated facing his chair, which looks soft and cozy. It’s covered with an ivory-colored fabric that seems so neutral for this space. Maybe that’s what he needs to help calm him.
Beside the chair is a set of shelves. Atop one of the lower shelves are several paintbrushes of all different sizes stuffed into a jar. The brushes appear to have clean bristles, but the wooden handles have dried-up paint spotted around them. On the shelf above them is a stereo.Maybe he likes listening to his music when he paints.It’s inspirational, I’m sure.
It’s obvious this is where he spends most of his time. His subtle fingerprints appear on nearly every surface throughout the room.
Turning around from where we have set up, I look again at the easel that’s been covered with a sheet since I arrived.Perhaps it’s something he is working on?
I’d love to go and look, but I know that would be a major invasion of privacy. Instead, I turn back to the journal in front of me.
What must it be like not being able to see?As I reflect, I’m struck with another completely inappropriate and selfish thought. It has to do with the man I’m working with.Imagine not ever knowing how attractive he is?
It doesn’t seem fair that this woman, Chantel, missed out on that. It doesn’t seem fair that she didn’t know what the man—a man she inspired—looked like.
Glancing back at the journal, I decide to continue reading, starting at the second entry on the same page. Pushing aside my worries that Phillipe will suddenly appear to stop me from goingfurther, I sit back, determined to finish this small, typed entry before he returns.
Second Opinions ~
I went back today, just like I said I would. I needed to talk to him again.
It took me a while to track him down.
He wasn’t where we last ran into one another. This time, he was down behind the chateau. He was by the old arbor—well, that was what my uncle told me when he led me down the pebbled path to what felt like a shaded area. My uncle greeted his employer, the man I now knew as Phillipe, and then he told me he would be over in the vineyard if I needed him.
I stood there silently, waiting for Phillipe to speak, but he didn’t. Instead, I heard him moving around. It sounded like he was shifting his stance from foot to foot. Each time he changed the weight of his footing, I heard the pebbles crunch. When I heard a swiveling sound in the gravel, I knew instantly that he was facing me.
I have to admit that I felt a little apprehensive. I’m not good with strangers, and I don’t handle change well. That was why I put on my sunglasses today. Yes, I know how ridiculous that seems, but I enjoy the privacy they afford me and the courage they seem to instill in me.
“You came back,” he said to me.
I swear that I felt his voice travel up my body, taking my breath away. I took a step closer.
“Do you need some help?” he asked.
Immediately, I sensed him beside me.
I turned in the direction where I felt him move, and I took a deep breath. Suddenly, I was surrounded by the smell of him,and it was so intoxicating. I remember consciously licking my lips because it made me hungry—hungry for him.
“No, I don’t need any help,” I responded.
