The Painter, pt.1

I hate how Harlequin some of this sounds, but everytime I re-read it I can't seem to cut or replace what I've written. You would love it. You would laugh. You would be moved by some of it, I know. God I miss you so. I was reminded of you today. I've had this cooking for a while so despite the futility of it all I am posting it.

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The paint had splattered along her cheek and forehead, and she wiped at it instinctively, making an indigo smear across her face. War paint, he thought briefly.

"You did that on purpose," she squealed.

"No," he answered, "flicking the brush that way gets a random splatter of dots on the canvas to mimic natural snowfall." With her tanned skin and fair hair drawn up behind her, she looked like a native goddess, but her smile suggested ceremonial merriment, not battle. "The collateral spray is an occupational hazard," he added, and grabbed a rag from his pocket to wipe her face. She closed her eyes as he cleaned off the paint. Her lips parted, (another reflex?) and he had a tremendous urge to kiss them, but pushed it aside. Instead he ran his thumb across her hairline, smoothing down some wayward strands. When he finished she opened her eyes and looked toward the canvas.

"I don’t understand why we are using dark blue to make snow," she said.

"Oh come on now, you've looked at enough art in your young lifetime; think about it. Think about what you know of Adobe Photoshop, your Sony Wega television, of digital photography. Think about a sunset on a hot August evening- hell, think about fifth grade science class and prisms. What is color but the reflection of light? Is a snowflake really white? We could just leave the canvas blank."

She was looking at him bemused, and a small smile appeared as she reached out and stroked his arm.

"I get it, yes."

He always did that, overstated his point. His thoughts ran deep if topic at hand was something he cared passionately about. It put some people off. He didn’t want to put her off. He reached for the palette.

"We could use a dozen colors to make one snowflake," he told her. Like the myriad of colors in your eyes when you look at me that way, he thought. He beat that thought back to join the kissing wish. Sabine was off limits. But God help him she did not make it easy.

"You make quite an impression," she said to him with a smirk. He groaned in reply.
"Oh that was so bad!"
She nodded back toward the canvas. "Show me what you were saying earlier about the tip of the brush and pressures and angles and so forth."
He never should have agreed to this. When she asked him to teach her how to paint, he was thrilled at the prospect. On one level he was excited to have the company and a friend, but if were to be honest with himself, and if he had learned nothing in eight months it was to be honest with himself, it made him so happy to have an excuse to spend time with her. He refused to let her pay him.
After a brief demonstration of how to create fine angles versus swirls, he held out the brush to her. She held her hands palms forward in front of her.
"This isn't a stick up take the brush."
"Me? Now? I don't want to ruin it."
"Sabine this is your painting, you can't ruin it. Anything you do to it will be your mark, made with your hand. All art is personal and subjective. You're not being asked to produce a masterpiece; you're imparting your spirit upon a canvas with paint."
Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes demurred, but she took the brush, dipped it in pale pink, and dotted a few spots of blue with it.
"Like this?" She asked.
"Very much like that," he told her. He reached around her shoulders and placed his hand over hers, adding a gentle pressure to help guide her strokes. "Just a little less pressure. It's almost like blowing dandelion clocks."
He wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but he could feel her pulse coursing through her wrist, pounding against his. Or was his pounding against hers? Her head leaned precipitously against his shoulder as together they dotted the landscape and transformed it into a winter wonderland, while the world outside the painting grew warm and more humid.
The heat spread everywhere, and he felt himself growing aroused, though he was loathed to break the spell that transcended the material. Did the warmth fill her as well? He closed his eyes yet they kept painting, and he focused on each beating pulse, imagining the blood rushing and engorging her as well, hearing her breath becoming shallow with each stroke of the brush. His head dipped and his lips brushed against the top of her ear. Her knees buckled, and her left hand grabbed at his shirt as she started to fall backwards.
"Oh!"
But he was there, catching and cradling with one arm as his left supported her elbow. Her face inches below his, startled and confused. Amber eyes reflected his fear. He lifted her upright, but was reluctant to let her go.
"Griffin?"
His face felt leaden. He relaxed his grasp and stepped back. His gaze fell to the floor.
"Sabine, forgive me. I didn't mean to…"
"No, shush. Stop. Don't say anything," she replied. He looked at her. Her cheeks were flushed, the blue paint flecking as it dried. He could imagine the flakes shedding and falling from her skin with each facial expression, with each word she spoke. He would later create an abstract of it on canvas and sell it for more money than he'd seen his whole life but she would be long gone by then. "Nothing you could say right now will make either of us feel better."
It was difficult to breath. He had ruined everything. She would leave and he'd never see her again.
Her hands were trembling. She fiddled with her necklace with one and the other pushed strands of hair behind her ear.
"Please don't tell me you didn't mean it," she said.