The Painter and His Lover

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shewhodwellsint...

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The Painter and His Lover

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Vignettes

The paintbrush left an oily trail on the canvas, a thin line of pale apricot to mimic the lacy edge of her silk chemise. The peachy tint reminded him of a botanical illustration of a tulip he had seen in a gallery on the Rue de Turenne.

He thoughtfully studied her reclining form, blunt wooden end of the paintbrush held to his lips. She lay languid on a mossy-green velvet méridienne, the very same couch he and her son, a classmate of his at Eton, had played many a game of chess, though it of late had become the focal point of the pair's lovemaking amongst other artistic pursuits.

For over a decade and a half they had spent high summer here at her chateau in the French countryside and never spoke of any life outside of those four weeks. This year when he left it would be for a barrister's robe and wig as an attorney in the criminal high court of London. Even after so many years he still felt he was no more than a passing fancy for her, an amuse-bouche. Does she take other lovers when they are apart? She was not the kind of woman who needed a man to make her whole. She was already complete in her own right, exquisitely so. Though it seemed to him a woman as magnificent as she would be wasted all alone, that she was a gift from heaven to any man who laid eyes on her, made to be admired and adored. As for him he could never look at any other woman. She was his one and only love since the day her son brought him home for summer recess. He suffered, more and more as time went on, for the days, weeks, months to pass swiftly so that he could get back to her.

A whirring fan stirred the wispy fringe of raven hair framing her face. She took a sip from a copper tumbler sweating on a low table beside her. Running her fingers across the perspiring surface, she transferred the liquid to her cleavage. Her body was still youthful and supple, the only clue as to her age, a slight sagging across her lower belly where the parturition of two children had left its mark.

He set down his brush and palette, hooked his thumbs under his suspenders and drew them down, pulled the shirt from the front of his trousers. Striding towards her he kicked off his workboots, paint-splattered and well-worn.

"Are we done?" she glanced up from the book she was reading, a novel by Nabokov.

No he thought, I am not ready to be done - I never want to be done. I want to stay here forever in this painting and forget about the world.