JEN
I lie on the sofa, my legs hooked over the back and my head dangling off the cushion. The weak winter sun is sneaking through the gap in my curtains, and I can imagine it glistening off the snow.
I close my eyes, scanning the park outside my flat without really seeing it. The trees stretching up into the sky with snow weighing down the branches, the white, foot step printed blanket on the ground, the empty swings moving and creaking in the gentle wind. The green of the leaves on the bushes peeking out, the blades of grass just starting to break through the snow, the winter flowers unaffected by the cold temperatures.
I open my eyes, spin on the sofa, and jump up, heading to my room. I open my wardrobe, my eyes finding my art box at the bottom. I grab my oil paints, tuck an easel and canvas under my arm, and head back into the front room.
I set everything up, pull the curtain back, and gaze out of the window. It’s not a painting that has to be done for University – it’s a painting that needs to be done for me. I dip the brush in paint, and make the first strokes on the canvas.
The tree trunks set the tone, the brown hues dark and rough against the perfectly white canvas. Branches stretch out in every direction, gnarled and creeping.
I clean the brush. A dip in the green. The leaves, limp and lacklustre after the freezing cold weather. The bushes, barely noticeable in the area where the most snow is.
Another clean. Another dip. The red metal of the swing. Clean. Dip. The seat. Clean. Dip. The little terrier dog sniffing the ground. Clean. Dip. The owner, snuggled in a coat. Clean. Dip. The sky, peppered with white and grey clouds. Clean. Dip. The weak sun hiding partially behind one of the fir trees. Clean. Dip. The snow, settled on every surface. Clean.
A smaller brush. Dip. The minute details – the markings on the trees. The foot prints – and paw prints – in the snow. The winter berries on the bush. The tiny tips of the blades of grass poking through. The added golden hues to the sun, a warming breath ruffling my hair.
Wait.
I look up, paintbrush in hand. Bing is smiling down at me, a McDonald’s bag in his hand.
“Hello.” I smile. “When did you get here?”
“A few minutes ago.” He puts the bag down on the table behind the easel and moves closer, standing behind me. He leans over, wrapping his arms around my shoulders, and kisses my jaw gently. “You looked lost in this. I didn’t wanna scare you.”
I smile slightly, focusing back on the painting. “I guess I was.”
“It’s amazing,” he says softly, and I rest the side of my head against his, shrugging one shoulder.
“It’s… It is what it is. It’s what I see when I look out of the window.”
“I have no idea why you go to University,” he mutters, tightening his arms around me. I put the paintbrush down, grinning.
“It’s because you go to work, so obviously I need something to fill my days so I don’t go crazy waiting for you to come and see me.” I put all the sarcasm in my body into that sentence, and he chuckles.
“That must be it.”
“Did you bring me food?”
“No, I’m stupid enough to come to your place with it and not bring you any.”
“Well, I was just checking, I mean, you never know, do you?” I stick my tongue out, smiling cheekily at him.
He loosens his grip, lifting me out of the chair. I squeak.
“I thought we already established I’m smart.” He kisses the back of my neck, causing little tremors to run down my spine. “I’m with you, aren’t I?”
“I thought I was with you?”
Bing runs his hands down my sides, following the natural curve of my body. They cup my hips for a second before travelling back to my stomach and resting there.
“You could be,” he says against my ear. “How about we just go with we’re with each other?”
“That sounds good too.” I squirm in his hold, eyeing the bag of food. “Okay. I’m hungry. What’s the time?”
“Half four.” He kisses my head and lets me go.
“It’s half four?” I step away, turning to look at him with my eyebrows raised.
He smirks. “Check your clock if you don’t believe me, Jennifer.”
“I’ll do just that, Samuel.” I poke my tongue out at him and stalk into the kitchen, swiping the paper bag of food from the side.
He’s right – the small clock on the microwave reads half past four. I must have been sat painting for hours. Literally, hours. I glance over my shoulder at the canvas. It was worth it – and I know Mum and Dad will feel the same.
The McDonald’s bag is full with food – Bing’s obviously large meal, my medium cheeseburger one, and those cheesy melt things I like. My stomach rumbles.
“How did you know to get the cheesy melts?” I can’t help the smile on my face.
One side of his mouth curls up. “Lexy. I asked her what you like.”
I eye the drinks on the kitchen counter that I didn’t notice before. “And in there?”
“A strawberry milkshake.” He beams, clearly proud of himself.
“You’re pretty smart.” I skip over to him and kiss him lightly. He grabs me, his hands resting on my lower back, and mine press to his chest. He sucks my bottom lip, massaging it gently, and I feel it in the tugs in my lower stomach. Last night flashes back to me, the needy way he held me, the way he moved…
“Okay,” I breathe, feeling the temperature of the room rise about one hundred degrees. “I need food.” Hot eyes look down at me, and I nod once, moving away. “Yep. I need food. A lot of food.”