Katherine
The rays of the sun caress the back of my neck as I make a cup of coffee in Blake’s kitchen. At first, I only stare at the glistening beast of a coffee machine. I am nearly dizzy from the number of buttons on the silver appliance, but I persist, and it does not take too long before I hold a steaming mug of hot black liquid.
I take a sip and close my eyes, enjoying the hot liquid caress my tongue before I swallow. This is excellent coffee.
Coffee is one of my weaknesses. I probably drink too much of it. And I like the good stuff, exactly like the one I am holding in my hands right now. I am a coffee connoisseur.
Life, I believe, is too short to drink bad coffee. And there’s nothing better than good coffee after a little nap, is there? After what happened inside the studio, I simply nodded off. I must have slept for a couple of hours before I finally woke up. Blake was nowhere to be seen, so I just made my way toward the kitchen.
Dressed in nothing but one of Blake’s t-shirts, and with bare feet, I now meander through the apartment and back to the studio.
I make my way through the living room, remembering how it felt to be with Blake. A little color rises to my cheeks as I recall the wild animalistic passion I had felt when Blake and I were having sex.
Dale had never been so near Neanderthal in his approach to sex, at least not with me.
I push thoughts of the ex-boyfriend aside. He is well and truly history.
Curiosity arouses I continue my exploration of this oversized apartment. I seem to still be floating on clouds, the after-effect of sex lingering.
I keep reminding myself that this is just a fling, not a long-lasting attachment, to the point where I’ve nearly convinced myself.
I have to admit, up until I stood in his workspace, I hadn’t been entirely convinced of Blake being an serious painter. Sure, I had seen his work on exhibit the other night, but it was no proof he was an artist. A real artist.
And now I stand in his workspace, and an explosion of color and feeling emanate from each and every piece of art scattered through the vast area stretched out before me.
It is not neat and tidy. I spot two, no, three working easel with canvasses on them. One of them appears to be blank, but the other two have been started, although it is unclear exactly what they are paintings of.
Some of the finished pieces are leaning against the wall, while others are hanging up. More of them are lying on the floor. He sure is prolific.
Slowly, I move from painting to painting.
It is as if a giant has taken me into his cave and laid his soul bare in front of me.
Open-mouthed, I stare at a large canvass filled with dark blues, grays and blacks. The storm raging within the artist is unmistakable. It must have been a dark day for Blake the day he painted this one.
I move on.
I’m intrigued. As a writer I understand all too well how your emotions can rule your creative side.
A canvass covered in every red and orange on the color spectrum has me reel back. I fear if I stand too close, the heat will burn my skin. I wonder if it is a raging fire he is portraying or something else.
I keep staring at the blast of reds, and as I do, I can see the destruction of what appear to have been buildings. I sense anger.
I keep walking. Blues, whites and turquoises draw me in. Puzzled, I stop and stare. Was this supposed to be the sky, the ocean or something so abstract I cannot work it out? Despite my inability to see a definite design, it has a serene feeling.
I recall having read somewhere that blue is a calming color. I smile. So there was a calm and balanced side to Blake after all.
Further along the back wall are some nudes. I’m relieved to find I don’t recognize any of his models. As I stare at them, a sense of insecurity creeps through me.
These girls are gorgeous. There is not a flaw on them. Big boobs, slim waist, flat stomach, nice ass, and slender legs on each and every one of them.
Some seem a little vacant in the facial expression, but as far as their bodies went, they were perfect.
Aware of my own nakedness under the large t-shirt, I glance downward. Suddenly I get the distinct impression Blake had only told me he wanted to paint me so he could get me to have sex with him. Must have been a slow day for him.
I notice another feature these girls have and I don’t. I don’t have long blonde curls to drape over my shoulder, half my face, or half way down my back.
A half-finished sketch catches my attention. I hold my breath as I instantly recognize the face, the shoulders and the rest of the body.
In the sketch I’m lying on my side. I’m asleep. Just by looking at it, I feel how peaceful I am.
My hair, which I had only moments before wished to be long, looks just right. It accentuates my cheekbones. My lips are slightly drawn up, as if I’m smiling.
The longer I stare at myself, the more I sense the eroticism oozing from me. I’m lying on my side, hiding some of my nakedness, and that somehow just makes it more erotic.
Suddenly, my throat feels dry, and I’m a little dizzy.
He must have painted this while I slept.
Hands wrap around my waist. Warm, moist lips caress my neck, instantly setting off emotional shock waves all through my body.
“Like it?”
No sound escapes my lips. His touch threatens to drag me into the thralls of ecstasy once more. I nod.
“What do you think…?” His hands are drawing little circles on my back. I can’t think properly.
“About what?” I croak. I barely recognize my own voice. It sounds frog-like.
“About the painting, Kat. Do you like it?”
I open my mouth to speak, but I quickly realize that I don’t know what to say.