The next evening, Pollux plans a date, and I'm giddy with excitement. It's been years since I've been on an actual date.

He said casual, so I throw on a pair of True Religion skinny jeans and a thin, blue sweater since it's a warmer winter than we're used to.

Within minutes of finishing the final touches of my makeup, he arrives.

When I open the door, I’m taken aback at Pollux in jeans, black sweater, and a black leather jacket. It's as good as the suit porn.

“You ready to have some fun?” he asks.

“Of course.”

We step out of my building and when we get to the curb, a black sedan awaits.

When the driver pulls away, Pollux leans over to me, his hand on my thigh. “You never finished telling me the story about Anne and that guy. Your email was a cliffhanger.”

“Sorry.” I laugh. “So, she stalked him all the way to his gym.”

“That’s not good. Did she finally talk to him?”

Poor Anne, she has a horrible time with the opposite sex. She likes a guy who she’s afraid to talk to.

“She did. Get this, when he came out of the gym she told him his shoes were untied. I guess he forgot to tie both his shoes. Anne says he glanced down and then thanked her.”

“What kind of man forgets to tie his shoes when leaving the gym?”

“A busy guy?” I laugh again.

Pollux rubs tiny circles on my thigh. “Well, that’s a whole new level of busy right there.”

“Yeah, I told her you don’t want a guy who doesn’t pay attention to tiny details.”

Pollux laughs, moving closer to me. “Definitely not. You need a very attentive man.”

My skin heats up. “Yeah, I do.”

“You’re in luck. I’m very attentive.”

Our eyes meet. “Yes, you are.”

His hand on my thigh squeezes and moves higher. Then, his lips suck my neck. “Very,” he drawls.

We both sit up straighter when the car jerks to a stop at a light.

“Where are you taking me anyways?”

He smiles. “I figured I’d take you on a real picnic. One without all the pretentious stuffy asses.”

I narrow my eyes. The sun has set, and it’s chilly outside. “How?”

“Have a little faith in me.”

The driver navigates through the heavy traffic, and I focus on the buzz of the city out the window. He heads to Midtown and stops in front of The Museum of Modern Art.

“What are we doing here? I thought we were going on a picnic?” I ask, stepping out of the car.

“Is that what you call having faith?”

The doors to the museum open, and an older man with longer gray hair smiles. “Sir, happy to see you. Come in.” He leads us inside, and I peek over my shoulder at Pollux.

“Thanks, George.” Pollux shakes his hand when we enter the main floor exhibit. My heart squeezes.

In the center of all the art, lies a red and white gingham blanket with two silver platters atop. A tapered candle burns in the center, and a bottle of red wine completes it.

“I love it,” I say.

“I figured you deserved a man who pays attention to all the tiny details.”

No one has ever done anything like this for me. The fact he chose a setting that involves something I'm passionate about has all sorts of emotions stronger than like emerging.

We sit together on the blanket, and I take in all the art around the room. “Did you know their collection has over two hundred thousand pieces?” I ask him.

He grabs his fork, ready to spear a tomato from his caprese. “Guess I don’t know that many tiny details.”

I laugh. “I love it here. My father used to bring my brother and I into the city when we were young, and I always wanted to come here.”

He smiles. “That’s sweet. So, what’s your favorite piece?”

“That one.” I point my finger. “It’s titled Let’s Walk to the Middle of the Ocean. By Mark Bradford.”

He tilts his head. “It’s pretty, I guess.”

“What you don’t like it?” I ask. “I love the colors. The vibrant blues. The dark yellows.”

“Can I be honest?” I nod. “It doesn’t really look like the middle of the ocean.” He cringes.

“Well, maybe they aren’t even near the ocean. The person might be making a statement: Let’s walk to the middle of the ocean. Doesn’t mean they did.”

He stands, stalking closer to the painting. “Oh, wait.” He leans his head in closer. "This little black smidge looks like a person, in the middle of the ocean.”

I follow him. “No, it doesn’t.” It really doesn’t. “I’m not even sure if the blue is the ocean.”

Pollux steps closer. “Of course, it is. And this blob right here,” he points to the yellow splatters of paint, “I think those are the rocks, or shore.”

I laugh. “You’re too literal. I think the artist is asking someone to do the impossible. Think about it, no one can walk to the middle of the ocean. So, he’s asking for the impossible. Let’s do something that can’t be done.”

“Do the impossible. I like that.”

“It’s stunning.” I step back, admiring the piece again.

“Honestly, I’ve never really thought about it. Like this one here,” he moves to another framed painting, “it looks like random numbers and letters on a blank sheet of paper. Any kid past kindergarten could do this.”

“Ah, yes. Christopher Wood. Yeah, I’m not a fan.”

“I mean the guy couldn’t even be bothered to title his artwork. That’s too busy to tie your shoes busy,” he says, crossing his arms as he studies the piece.

“Maybe that’s his uniqueness shining through,” I say, returning to the blanket.

“You’re good at interpreting art. I guess I’ve never really been a fan.” He joins me on the blanket, stretching out his long legs.

“Of course, you are. You have all that vibrant artwork all over your body.”

He removes his shirt, and I nearly choke on my wine. “How would you interpret what you see?”

“Hmm,” I take in each tattoo all connected in some way: the cross, the words scrawled along his chest, tribal designs down his arm, and a lion on his bicep. “I think it all works well together.”

“What does it say to you?”

“Well, I think it shows anger or fear. The cross is someone dear to you that you lost. The words mean you will carry out what he or she couldn’t. Then, the lion. The most relentless fighter. It represents courage and overcoming difficulties. I don’t really know, though.”

He stares at me, quiet for a moment too long. “Wow, you should charge money for that.”

I laugh. “Oh, stop.”

He pulls his shirt back on. “I just thought the lion was cool. That’s why I got him.”

I want to ask him about the cross, the person he lost, but he surprises me by opening up.

“Her name was Harper. She was my little sister.”

“You don’t need to talk about it, if you don't want.” I feel bad for souring the mood.

He takes my out. “Fucking art, right?”

“It’s very deep, I know.” I smile wide, and Pollux laughs.

We continue eating, laughing over art interpretations and life. I want him to open up to me about his sister, but only when he’s ready.

* * *

The past few weeks with Pollux have been an exciting whirlwind of fun and sex. So much sex. I almost introduced him as my fuck-ce. After the latest charity event, he leads me to the waiting town car. We head back to my place in a frenzy of kisses and moans that continues all night long. The silent push and pull of everything I want in this life that I can’t have weighs on me as we hold each other in the twilight hours.

How can I have him?

“Will you show me your artwork?” he asks.

“I’ve never shown anyone.” I want to show him, I want to give him this part of me. But, fear envelops me. It's something private I use to release pent up emotions.

Travis never understood my love for art. Not that he cared about anything that interested me. He thought it was a senseless hobby.

A hobby that wouldn’t amount to much. And I've always kept it hidden, afraid everyone would feel that way. Sometimes we let people make us believe the lie. They're just that good.

The painting in my living room isn’t even signed by me. And whenever anyone asks I never say a word. When they say it's beautiful, I smile. They don't know the beauty came from hurt. From finding out the man you married was a manipulative cheater, and realizing there is a difference between love and the fantasy of love.

All those emotions were thrown onto the canvas in a swirl of reds, blues, and yellows. Anger, melancholy, and hope, weeping down the canvas. Pollux saw the sadness. It reminded him of tears. And honestly, it terrified me. It was as if he saw right into my soul.

“Well, I’d love to see some,” he says. “If you want.”

I rise from the bed and put on my robe. “Ok, get dressed and follow me.”

He raises a brow. “Where is this artwork?”

I smile. “You’ll see.”

A few minutes later, I lead him down the hall and through a doorway. A short staircase later, and we exit onto the roof of the building.

“It’s nice up here,” he says, glancing out at the magnificent view of the city.

“Follow me.” I lead him to a large shed and open the lock with my key.

When we step through, he’s quiet as he studies each piece of abstract art.

He’s taken by one piece mixed with purples and blues on a large canvas. “Tell me about this one,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder.

I step closer. “Ah, this was a very somber time in my life. My brother had just lost his son, my baby nephew.”

“How old was he?”

My chest aches. I run my fingers along the dried paint, remembering. “Six. Way too young to be taken from this world. He was such a great kid. So cute and funny.”

He wraps his strong arms around me and rests his chin on my head. Tears well in my eyes. “I painted this not long after.”

“You can really feel the sadness from the piece.”

“I miss him.”

“I know. After Harper died a few years ago,” he says, quietly, stepping from our embrace, “I didn’t ever like talking about it. Sometimes I still don’t.”

“I’m sorry.” The pain in his eyes hurts my heart. “Don't you hate sorry?”

“Yeah. It was a bad time for all of us. I just remember it was too soon for her to die. She had so much more life to live.”

“I know it's hard.” I run a hand down his arm. “Death is horrible.”

“Well, death is quick. It’s the living who suffer.” He grabs the rosary around his neck. “This was hers.” He rubs the onyx beads through his fingers.

“It’s lovely.”

“She was an artist like you,” he tells me. “She liked to draw. She was gifted. I saved all of her drawings.”

My chest aches for him. “Maybe someday you can show me.”

“Someday.” He looks back over to my paintings. “So why don’t you sell the artwork? I’m sure your friends would pay a lot to own these.”

I shake my head. “No, I’d never do that.”

He grabs another canvas, gazing at the autumn colors. “I think you’re very talented.”

I don’t know how to handle his praise. No one has ever critiqued my art. “Thanks,” I say, softly.

“Why do you want to be partner so much?”

His question takes me by surprise. “Uh, because? I’m not really sure. Isn’t that the goal? Work hard and be promoted?”

“Just seems to me that you’re so busy proving yourself to others that you’re not really proving yourself to you.”

“What do you mean?”

He steps closer, running his hands up my arms. “Passion, Katy. What fires you up? Does painting?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

I pick up a canvas and drop some paint onto my palette. He steps back, watching every move I make as I gather all the brushes I like working with and set everything in order.

He’s right. The fire lights deep in my soul when I make my first mark. “I have an idea.”

“Let’s hear it.”

I smile. “Take off your clothes, and sit down.”

He raises a brow, but in two minutes he's sitting nude on the sheet spread out on the floor. His body is its own work of art.

I grab the body paint from my drawer and squirt some on a fresh palette.

“I’m trusting you,” he says.

I take his words to heart. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe they’re just words people throw around. But, to me, they’re everything.

I remove my robe.

We sit together, intertwined legs, and I brush a stroke of red paint along his perfect abs.

“That’s cold,” he says, flinching slightly.

He dips his fingers into the blue, and smears the paint along my neck and right shoulder.

He leans in, kissing me. Our hands paint every emotion we have for each other all over our skin.

Reds. Blues. Yellow. We are covered in colors as he lies me back.

“You’re drop-dead gorgeous,” he says, cupping my face in his large hands.

I run my hand through his jet-black hair. It feels good to open myself up to someone. To him. I’m not some stuck-up socialite princess like people think I am.

No, Pollux sees me for who I am.

He moves over me, kissing my lips, sucking them into his mouth, nibbling the corners. Our tongues meet, speaking unspoken feelings. This is what it means to give yourself to someone completely.

I pull him closer, digging my nails into his skin.

He groans near my ear, and his hips press into mine. He spreads my legs, and I close my eyes, overcome by fear of feelings I can no longer deny. “I’m trusting you,” I whisper. “Can I?”

“Always,” he moans before running his hands up my abdomen to my full breast.

The colors swirl together, creating divine art.