“What are you doing up?” Kayla asked, looking adorably rumpled from sleep as she stood in the doorway to my studio.
Going back to my work, I flicked the brush to finish up a last bit of detail and replied “I got inspired.” She wasn’t nearly as nightowlish as I was and my coy response was met with a sleepy scowl.
Wandering into the room she glanced towards a canvas I’d wrecked the previous night. “I thought you liked working on portraits? What’s that?”
Peering up from behind my canvas, I chuckled to myself that she thought my paint splatter of frustration was my Pollock like tribute. “Oh, no, that’s where I vent my frustration. This is what I’m working on now,” I answered, pivoting my easel towards her. It was a portrait of her sleeping in my bed. The sheet had pulled down off of her body, leaving her perfect back, and a sliver of her breast showing, and in the light of the moonlight, I couldn’t do anything but jump out of bed and sketch her. But the charcoal wasn’t capturing her creamy skin the way I wanted to remember it, which is how I ended up in my attached studio trying to recreate her perfect figure.
Her hand immediately went up to her gaping mouth, her eyes quickly tracking between my face and the painting. Her awe was quite endearing. We’d only started dating recently, and she’d never seen any of my work.
“Is that me?” she gasped, tracing her finger around the image of her, prone on the bed.
I pulled her close, not caring that my paint stained fingers would likely leave an indelible reminder of my chosen profession all over my t-shirt she’d put on.
We stood together, my arms casually draped around her waist as we both appreciated my unfinished work of art. “When I’m done, I think this is going up in my bedroom. I don’t want to share you with anyone,” I whispered into her ear, nibbling on the lobe.
“Why didn’t you show me before?” She spun around, kissing me softly. Glancing around my messy workroom she demanded, “I want to see them all.”
My last girlfriend never cared for the paint that was perpetually stuck beneath my fingernails. She was a beautiful and intelligent woman, but she never really understood my creativity and the intense urge I felt in my blood when my muse started speaking to me. It was a force I couldn’t stop, even if there was a dinner reservation I was likely going to miss because of it. Watching Kayla move around my room, her eyes catching every minute detail, every loving brush stroke I never thought anyone but myself would notice gave me pause. For once, maybe I’d found the person who would understand my passion, and instead of using it against me, would help forge a glorious new side of my work.
This is a piece that was posted yesterday on the Daily Picsperation blog. There are some amazing authors who write for this blog. Check them out if you have time.
Thanks & happy Friday,