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It’s early but she pours herself another glass anyways, relishing the warmth that trails down her throat and the bitter aftertaste that dries in her mouth.
“Does this angle work for you?” she asks over her shoulder with a smile that somehow gets her to peer over the rim of her glass.
“Hm?”
“I figured you’d get more skin with this.”
She laughs, light and bouncing off the walls of her studio. It settles a couple of seconds after and all she could think about is the dip in her shoulders and the dimples on her back that the white fabric barely covered.
“What makes you think I wanted more skin?” She tries to keep a straight face, but knows the unevenness of her smile gives her away.
“That’s your third glass and we haven’t even started yet,” she looks her in the eyes, a silent little dare to get her to admit that— yes, she wanted more skin but no, not for this. “we both know how you suck at being subtle.”
She takes another sip of her bourbon, dragging the silence before chuckling at the absurdity—that for some strange reason, she’s being rather shy around her today and that rarely happens.
“Don’t use me to justify your need to show off, and even if I did want it,” she smiles, “it would solely be for artistic purposes.”
She laughs, hair falling to cover her shoulder. “Well that’s something I haven’t heard before.”
“That’s because you never listen.” She turns away, keeping her gaze on the untouched brush lying by her palette before meeting her gaze. “Although, I’d be lying if I said the angle isn’t working.”
Her chuckles never really managed to stay long enough to fill the space between them, and she thinks everything about her is fleeting and maybe that’s why they’re both here.
“Of course, all for the sake of art.” The sarcasm isn’t lost to her and she laughs in response, “Are you going to stop staring and actually start painting?”
“You like it when I stare,” she finishes the rest of her drink and walks towards her.
She catches her breath hitch and the quick flutters of eyelashes that she finds frames her eyes in ways she can’t fully explain most days. It’s a momentary break in her confidence and it brings a surge of warmth that blooms in her chest that she indulges herself in, because Jennie is never not confident.
Except with her.
“I do.” comes the breathy response, her voice shakes and she can’t keep herself from smiling.
“I know.” She reaches for one end of the cloth wrapped around her waist, and she knows she’s trying hard to keep her eyes on her hands and not on her.
She pools the fabric closer to her and she tries not to but her skin looks softer up close, and the little oh that escapes her mouth when her fingers brushed past her waist took every bit of resolve left inside her to fall to her feet and so she ends up falling to her knees.
“Is this better?” she asks, and something about it feels closer than it should be.
She doesn’t say anything in return, choosing to look into her eyes instead. A thought comes uninvited, and she tries to ignore it. Focusing on the swirls of dark rich brown that she tries hard to capture on canvas but always manages to look different every time—because it’s lighter beneath the sun and lights and with everyone else.
“Is this better, Lisa?”
Her name rolls off of the tip of her tongue deliciously, and she melts further into the sound of it. Her breath comes slow and she hears the beginnings of a chuckle that stirred the heat inside her over and over.
“Do you want me to keep my shoulders hidden beneath my hair?” she asks quietly between them that it almost feels intimate. “Tell me what you want, Lisa.”
The answer comes crashing against her better judgement,
You, you, you. I want you. She thinks.
“I want it bare,” she answers, reaching out tentatively, eyes searching for any signs of denial that say no, don’t but finds nothing else but invitations of yes, please.
Her fingers brushed against her shoulders, and it sends a ripple of delight that she hears in the way she’s holding in her breath. She trails a line softly, brushing her hair to the side gently and grazing the top of her collarbones. She takes her time, taking in the sensations as she would a glass of expensive wine. She looks up briefly to meet her eyes, and understands that it’s an invitation for more.
She should’ve walked away, but finds herself placing a chaste kiss on her shoulder and another on the dip close to her neck. She smells like the cusp between spring and summer, a burst of citrus chased away by subtle notes of sandalwood, it makes her feel bold and kisses the delightful skin on her neck. Biting softly into the flesh and leaving a mark of red that she hopes fades away before the day ends. She hears her murmur her name and it’s enough to get her crumbling into the crook of her neck.
“You—”
“I know.” her answer holds more than she realizes. Holds more than the realization that she has yet again walked past certain lines she shouldn’t.
“We should stop.” she whispers into her skin,
“Maybe.”
“Tell me to stop.”
“I,” she reaches out to play with her hair, burying her fingers, “can’t”
The admission has her gasping, she realizes she’s everywhere.
“You have to,” she tries again, lips barely grazing the skin and the mark because she’s afraid. Of reopening scars she’s forced to close come nighttime and the thoughts that come creeping before she sleeps. Thoughts she quiets with her own hands.
She hears her gasp, her fingers drawing circles on the dimple on her back, and its melody mixes with the perfume in the air that she has to let go before she drowns in the flavors she’s not supposed to taste because what is left right after?
What is left right after?
She lets her go, and the disappointment in her eyes almost has her coming back but she stands and walks back to the easel, where the half filled canvas stares back at her and she knows, it will never be enough. She reaches out to pour herself another drink. A knee-jerk response to get the taste of tangerines off her mouth and throat.
“Are you almost done with the portrait?” Are you almost done with me? She’s disappointed but never mad, never mad,
She hums a response and picks up the brush, dipping the tip and mixing a bit of white with pale pink to try and mimic the color of her skin. “You should stop staring too.” she whispers, smiling when she catches her look away.
She lights the cigarette tucked between her lips, drags long and hard and keeps the smoke inside her before allowing it to take up the space around her by the open window.
She turns up in a plain white button down shirt tucked messily into her jeans and a smile that she can’t deny, so she smiles back despite the bite in her heart.
“I think you did better this time.” she takes the empty stool by her table and plays with an apple from the bowl of fruits she keeps as a still life study. “You managed to choose the right color for my eyes.”
“I’m glad you noticed,” she teases, her hair is up and she can’t help but stare at her neck and wishes she was kissing it instead.
“I always do, silly.”
“I thought you left,” she says, trying to hide the plea that’s bubbling in her throat; please stay.
“I was about to,” she breaks the apple in half, it leaves a subtle note in the air that blends with the smoke, “I couldn’t help the urge to take a peek at your work.”
“You can always come by anytime, you know.”
“Now where would be the fun in that, Manoban?” she laughs, and she wishes silently she never stops laughing.
“Of course, I forgot you thrive on thrills.”
It’s undeniably messy, they both know that and yet she can’t fully walk away from it. It’s the messiness she finds beautiful and captivating, so naturally her, undeniably her, nothing else but her. It’s what keeps her where she is and she hates that. She hates not being able to do anything about it and hates the idea that she has to do something about it. About her. When all she ever wanted was her, and yet she’s left with pieces and traces of her. On her skin, on her lips, on her canvas but never with her. In the small confines of her studio, framed in canvasses filled with her strokes that chase each other to the music of her, the essence of her. Everywhere and anywhere she looked was her.
She keeps her gaze on her face, taking in the slight upturn of her lips as she smiles, the way her brows furrowed in confusion and the way she licks her bottom lip as she walks up to her and takes her cigarette away.
She sighs, taking the cigarette to her mouth for a puff and sending smoke between them, before leaning in to kiss her briefly on the lips. She pulls away first, almost as if the kiss felt like a mistake. Regarding her with a small smile that feels heavy, before fully taking in the scene in front of her, noticing the windows and asking; “I thought you don’t like them open during this time of the year.”
She tastes smoke and tangerines in the air.
“I don’t.” she smiles, “It’s to keep your scent away. I’d rather not have you here with me so it’s easier to say goodbye.”
She smiles in understanding; i’d rather have you here, please don’t say goodbye.
“I know, love.”
She nods once and looks away as she walks away to leave. Eyes trained on the painted smile on the canvas and ears filled with a certain kind of stillness she loathed.
“Take care,” she whispers.
“I will.”