Mila’s robe drifts to the floor.
I keep my head low, eyes low, everything me is low, low, low.
Bare feet come into view which lead up to long slender legs covered my so much skin.
After taking a breath, I allow myself to draw in every square inch of this woman and then I meet her eyes and feign being completely unaffected by her nakedness. Clearing my throat, I work hard to gather exactly what it was I was going to say. “I was going to say that I’m happy to give you time to make yourself comfortable with being naked, but you seem comfortable enough.” I swallow.
Mila sends her fingers into her hair and ruffles the thick blonde mass for a moment. “Yes, I’m fine, Tess. I am comfortable. If I were not comfortable in my own skin, I would not have taken this job.” She tosses me a playful grin then saunters across the room…hair swishing…hips swaying…gorgeousness galore.
I drop the paintbrush in my hand and then quickly fumble around to pick it up and right myself along with my thoughts and then my eyes fix on Mila again who stretches out on the chaise. It is all ivory skin again velvet blue and the contrast couldn’t be more stunning. The light which pours in from the window isn’t as I had imagined or hoped it would be. The sun is blotted out by the swollen gray clouds which offer this city nothing but downpours this morning. The shadows granted to my view from the effect are interesting. I have enough light. I decide that once my heart stops booming in my chest that I can begin.
Facing the canvas, I reach up with shaky fingers and adjust the top button of my blouse. The relentless choking sensation is staved off with that action and helps to cool my skin.
I keep my head low and silently berate myself for being so ridiculous.
If you don’t look at her, Tess, how on earth are you supposed to paint her?
You must look at her!
I force myself to be strong and gather myself. After all, this is work. This is what I wanted. A living breathing human being is across the room and posing just so that I can immortalize them on canvas. I am being given the opportunity to do something great. I am here to create.
I am an artist.
Now, I just must really prove it…
If only to myself.
Mila
TESS WORKS LIKE A woman possessed…
Her gaze swings from the canvas to my form and then back to the canvas again.
Long strands of her hair have come loose from the neat style it was previously in and a huge array of bright colors—blue, pink, purple, yellow—stain her once proper clothing. Her blouse is three buttons undone and every now and again her hand swipes away the sweat which has gathered on her skin. She works feverishly, madly, passionately, and I can’t help but appreciate it all while she is in her element.
Tess works…
While I just lie here, shifting positions, attempting to make myself look beautiful and trying to make conversation with her which thus far has been difficult, but I push on…
“I once told my father that I hated going to church.”
Tess pauses, says nothing.
“It was a mistake, you know, something I shouldn’t have said because the next time I was forced to go, I was ordered to stay there for much longer.” I roll my eyes and then face the window and admire the falling rain, wishing I could crack one of those windows open so that I could smell it, but Tess prefers them shut. “I think my parents felt that if they forced me to love going to sit in the house of the Lord for a while, I would gradually learn to love it.”
“You cannot make someone love something whether it be action or a person or a thing if their heart isn’t open to it.” Tess makes dramatic strokes with the brush in her hand and stains the canvas with pale yellow while leaving herself a sweaty mess with the action.
“Yes, I know.” Smiling, I wiggle my brows and shift where I lie, uncaring that my breasts are on display for this woman to see along with every other God-given body part of mine. I admire myself for a moment and accept that I enjoy this nakedness. I adore how beautiful I feel. And I accept that nothing but excitement moves through me in a torrent to know that I will be captured on canvas for eternity.
Tess continues to work feverishly. “Can I ask that if you hated church so much and your parents for forcing you to go so often, then why do wear that cross around your neck, Mila?” She spares me a quick glance before the canvas in front of her becomes her only focus once again.
My eyes fall to the piece of jewelry which dangles from the gold chain around my neck that Tess speaks about. Clutching it tightly, I squeeze it between my fingers and feel odd for cherishing it so much. Then my eyes find Tess’ blues. “I didn’t say I didn’t believe in God, Tess…I simply said I didn’t like the way my parents forced me to acknowledge that he exists.”
“So, what does it matter whether or not you were forced or not, the end result was the same, wasn’t it?”
My brows crash together. “Yes, I suppose it was.”
“It isn’t the idea of church you hate or God. It is the absence of freedom of choice which your parents took away then.” She tosses me a look then gets back to her vicious brushstrokes.
I never did like being told what to fucking do…
I shove down how defensive I feel. “I believe in God.” I make a face. “I just maybe don’t believe so much in going to church eight days a week.” I lift a shoulder. “What’s so wrong with that?”
“Nothing.” Not bothering to glance my way, Tess mumbles the word so low that I can barely hear it. “Nothing at all.” The artist doesn’t smile only focuses on the work ahead of her.
The rain outside falls and beats on the window harder, earning my attention. Camille Saint-Saëns’ “The Swan” drifts from the record player. It is a lovely tune, one I shut my eyes to absorb for just a moment before I gaze out and up into that severely gray sky and breathe.
It’s been months since I left home—even longer since I’ve either seen or spoken to Fenna who I miss so dearly. I had convinced myself that I would forget her—that I would move…on—that I would be fine without her, but these days I wonder if any of it is either true or possible.
Sometimes we must leave behind the ones we love…and deal with the consequences…
I suppose it’s why I’ve been writing to her and I cannot stop sending the letters in the hopes that she will know that even though we are not able to be together that I have not gone very far.
Still, I should leave Fenna alone.
“What were your parents like?” Stretching out more, I allow my thighs to part slightly.
Tess’ gaze swings to her right and stays on me for a little longer than it should.
I bask in the attention I pretend not to notice I’m receiving.
Her hand hammers the canvas as she dabs more blue onto it. “They were kind. My mother stayed at home, just like I do, only she had children to take care of and my father was a businessman.”
“Oh.” I run my hand over my thigh, adoring my own skin—warm, soft, unblemished—and then I shift taking comfort in the sensation of the velvet which brushes my skin. I am beautiful in contrast with all the blue which surrounded me. I am enamored by the color which only reminds me so much of Tess’ captivating eyes. “Do you see your parents often?”