Instantly I compare it to Blake’s work.
Whoever this artist was, he or she was not a patch on my Blake.
Oh dear, now I am already thinking of him as mine. He is not mine. Repeat after me, Katherine , I think to myself, he isn’t yours.
I decide the blues look too artificial. No ocean is that blue. It’s neither pale nor dark. And then there’s the boat. There’s something wrong with the boat. I think it’s out of proportion. Maybe the artist was still learning, a relative of one of the employees.
Someone elbows me in the ribs and I check my watch again. Seven minutes late. Robin better have a good excuse.
My eyes go back to the painting.
Perspective. I suddenly realize the perspective is what’s wrong with the painting. Just as I formulate the specific problem, my thoughts are interrupted by an extremely unwelcome incident.
This time someone knocks me so hard in the back I stumble forward a few steps, nearly knocking into one of the waitresses carrying three plates of mouthwatering food.
Instead of a sorry I hear an ‘oh it’s you.’
Slowly I turn toward the offender. My heart plummets right into my little toe. What the fuck is Dale doing here and who is the slim, big-busted blonde hanging off his arm?
For a few seconds we stare at each other.
I wish for some event to occur that would have me disappear from this space right now. Of course I know this is silly, but it doesn’t stop me from wishing for it to occur. We all sometimes wish for impossible things.
Where on earth was Robin? What was the point of a best friend when she was not there when you really needed her? I needed her right here, right now.
“What have we here?” Dale’s unpleasant voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Hello, Dale,” I say through tight lips. Don’t stoop to his level.
I notice that the blonde says nothing. Like a well-trained poodle, she keeps her right arm through Dale’s and pretends she notices nothing, eyes directed at something or someone in the restaurant.
“Already been dumped?”
The taunt in his voice doesn’t escape me. Despite my best effort not to show any emotion at this tactless remark, my heart feels as if it’s been stabbed by a pointy dagger.
Instead of giving a reply, I raise my eyebrows so as to convey I don’t know what he is talking about.
Dale does one of those fake laughs I always hated.
“You can’t seriously be thinking Blake will stick with you.”
He emphasizes the ‘you’ in a way that leaves me cringing. I know what he’s going to say, like a captain knows his ship is sinking, or a chef knows his meal is ruined, and yet there’s nothing that can be done about it.
Again, I curse my bestie for her tardiness. Then I curse myself for having agreed to come to this restaurant of all restaurants.
“I don’t recall asking you for an opinion.” I finally answer just to say something.
Another fake laugh from Dale. The poodle glances at me and then goes back to staring straight ahead.
“Really, Kath. Everyone knows Blake discards his models like other men discard their underwear.”
I think the analogy is a poor one. I try and remain some kind of composure. I don’t want to lose self-control in public. Not here. Not now.
“What makes you think I’m sleeping with Blake?”
I try and sound casual. In reality my heart is beating so wild in my chest I’m surprised others can’t see it. Despite my attempts to protect myself against Dale’s words, they do hit their mark.
This time Dale leans forward so his face is really close to mine. For the first time I realize how his breath smells like a deceased cat. Had I really once stuck my tongue into that mouth for a kiss? Goosebumps travel up my arms.
“Come on.. Don’t pretend. Everyone knows Blake fucks all his models.”
I feel my cheeks redden at his emphasis.
I resist the temptation to slap him. I force myself to remember how he was having sex with the peroxide woman only a few months ago and here he is with someone different again.
Desperate. He’s desperate and trying to hurt you, I remind myself.
“I don’t know where you get your information.” I say as calmly as I can, my insides a battlefield of world war three. I need to keep my emotions under control. “How do you know I’m posing for Blake?”
As far as I know, no one knows about the painting, particularly since Blake gave me his word it would never be on display.
“I told you,” Dale has straightened up again. “Blake fucks all his models.”
I feel a ringing in my ears and the world goes a little out of focus. Don’t take the bait, I remind myself.
To distract myself I make a fist and dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands until it hurts.
Searching for something suitable to say, I’m distracted by a commotion behind me.
The poodle, Dale, and I turn around at the same time.
No words can express how relieved I am to see my salvation has just arrived.
Katherine
“Sorry, sorry!” Robin apologies after almost knocking a waiter down. With her cheeks flushed, she makes her way toward me, and I notice the expression on her face. To say it is dark as storm clouds is an understatement.
“What are you doing?” She demands, her attention entirely on Dale.
He raises an eyebrow in pretend shock.
“I though this is a free country and anyone could eat here. Am I mistaken?”’
Robin hates pretentious assholes and that is exactly how Dale sounds. I also know she hasn’t forgiven him for cheating on me.
What’s worse than a best friend out for vengeance? I pity Dale, and my thoughts are racing to come up with a way to diffuse the situation.
“And I thought assholes were not served at this fine establishment.”
Dale curls his hand into a fist and takes a step toward Robin.
“Try it, sunshine, and you’ll be sorry.”
I’m desperate to come up with something. I hate a scene in public and I don’t want my friend to get hurt. I draw a blank.
“What are you going to do, shorty? Bite my knee caps?” Dale makes one of his smug smiles that makes you want to punch him right between the eyes.
Robin straightens her shoulders and stands on her tippy toes.
“Don’t tempt me.” She hisses at him and Dale laughs a metallic laugh.
“You’re so short you’ll probably not even reach those.”
I see Robin take a step toward Dale and it only makes him laugh harder.
“You know what Dale? I’m just the right height to grab your dick and balls and slice them right off. Your scrotum would make a great accessory for one of those gay guys over on Seventh Avenue.”
Obviously some of Robin’s words have an impact. Dale has taken a step backward.
Someone taps me on the shoulder.
“Your table is ready, Katherine.”
Relieved, I drag Robin away from the seething Dale.
As we make our way to our table, I hear Dale say something about no longer wanting to eat at a restaurant that gave their best table to a feral woman and her sidekick.
No one takes any notice of him. Out of the corner of my eyes I see him leave, the poodle following obediently.
After I take a sip of the complimentary champagne, Robin bombards me with questions.
“What did Dale say to you? How are things between you and Blake? How’s the painting coming along? Is he really as good in bed as they say he is?”
As the bubbles dance across my tongue before sliding down my throat, I relax and feel a little better. I managed a chuckle.
Words, Katherine, they are only words he used, I try and tell myself. It’s not working.
“Which question do you want me to answer first?”
Robin rests her head in her hands, elbows on the table.
“Tell me all about you and that hunk of a man Blake.”
I’m not sure where to start. It’s a bit public to tell all about the sex we’ve been having. And generally, we don’t really discuss the sex we’ve been having.
“Why were you late?” I ask to buy a little time.
I notice how my best friend goes a little red in the face.
This is unusual.
“I lost track of time,” she mumbles and picks up her own glass to take a sip of the cool liquid.
Ever punctual Robin lost track of time? I can’t believe it.
“You never,” I start, but she interrupts me.
“Just tell me about you and Blake.”
I make a mental note to interrogate her further about this allegation of losing track of time, but oblige her request and start talking about Blake.
“You know,” I take another sip of my drink. “He’s really a brilliant artist. He captures his subjects in the perfect way. Colors perform the way he wants them to.”
Robin is grinning.
I stop talking.
“What?” I don’t recall having said anything amusing.
“You’re in love.”
“Am not.” I protest and am pleased a waiter is bringing our entre.
I take a forkful of steamed fish, which melts in my mouth. Delicious.
“Do you make the same sound when he kisses you?”
“Stop it.” I growl at my best friend.
“Oh Blake don’t stop, please give me more.” Robin coos and we both laugh.
“Stop it. You’re so cruel. We’re just–” I stop midsentence. I realize I’m not sure exactly what we are.
“You’re in love with Blake.” Robin shrugs. –And who can blame you. I mean he looks the complete package. God-like. Unlike Dale, who is a poor excuse for a man.”
I’m tempted to defend Dale out of habit, but then I recall his words from earlier and stop myself.
“What’s wrong?” Robin asks.
“Nothing.”
“Come now Kath, it’s me Robin, your best friend not some stranger.”
I sigh. She has a point.
“It’s just Dale said Blake discards his models like other men discard their underwear. And,” I hesitated; “and I think I do really like him.”
There I’ve said it. It is out in the open.
“For starters, what does it matter what loser Dale has to say? Second you’re in love with Blake. And third, how do you know he does not feel the same way about you?’
“I don’t.”
She points her fork at me.
“See what I mean? From the way you’ve described the painting, he’s done it for you as a work of love. Not to mention, he gave a promise he not to display it. I’d say he’s got feelings for you. I’d say Blake’s in love with you.”
I shake my head. I wish I could be that confident. Dale’s words bounce around my head like an out of control basketball: everyone knows he fucks all his models and discards them once he’s painted them.
“Kath. Earth to Katherine.”
Robin’s voice brings me back to the present.
“Sorry. I just can’t help thinking about what Dale said. Maybe I should run before I get hurt, again.”
“Stop it. Stop thinking about what Dale said. He’s a loser. Of course he’s trying to rattle your cage.”
I nod.
“I just don’t know what to do.”
Robin looks me straight in the eyes.
“Look, baby cakes. You just have to trust. Trust that this is the right one. Falling in love is like jumping off a cliff and hoping you don’t crash land.”
Robin raises her glass and I do the same.
“To love.”
Blake
I’m whistling as I’m mixing reds, blues, greens and yellows. I love this time of the day best, particularly on a sunny day like today.
Some of my best work was created on days like this.
Although the critiques have been kind to me, I’ve e been less than satisfied with my creations of late. I can’t put my finger on it, but as far as I’m concerned they lack something, something special in them.
Of late, it has become harder and harder to paint. In fact, it’s been quite soul destroying, to find my muse at such a low. I can’t recall how often I have stood in front of a canvass and be unable to create anything at par with my usual standard.
Sure the paintings have been good, better than some of the crap you see in galleries or restaurants, but just not good enough for me.
I sigh.
Today is different. Today, like the last few days, I’m not struggling to get going. On the contrary, I’m itching to put paint on a fresh canvass, the large white space calling to me to turn it into something special.
Before I start, I glance at the sketches to my left. They are of Katherine.
My Katherine.
I like thinking of her in terms of mine. She is mine. I know it.
My lips curl into a smile and tiny butterfly seems to be slowly flying through my innards.
Katherine.
Eight letters. Just thinking about her drives me insane. I’m not sure what it is about the woman that I can’t help but have this frenzied desire well up in me every time I think of her.
Almost involuntarily, guided by my artistic spirit, white fades into an explosion of colors as I finally start another masterpiece.
From time to time I pause, stare at my creation as it takes shape, before I continue. Boy this feels good.
After about an hour, I stop. My neck is aching and I need coffee. As I walk into the kitchen I perform a few stretches. Left right, back and forth. I feel the tension release.
Sometimes I can get carried away for hours in my work and afterwards find my muscles seize up. Over the years, I have learned to take little breaks from time to time to loosen everything up.
Katherine sure knows how to loosen me up. I grin. Everything seems to be about her now.
I love painting. I love it nearly more than sex. At least until the other day, before Katherine and I –
I try and stop the thought process.
If I start thinking about Katherine in the nude I doubt I will get back to my artwork.
As I watch the rich, black liquid spill into my cup, I allow myself a little frolic.
The image of Katherine pressed against the kitchen bench is too strong to push away. Her breasts right in my face, her nipples so pink and hard, begging to be sucked and pinched.
I almost jump when the machine makes its familiar burping sound to indicate the process of making coffee is over.
If I did not know better, I’d say the woman is a witch. Only a witch would have such strong powers over me.
Cup in hand, I drift back to my studio.
I can’t afford to daydream all day. Besides, what’s the point about of simply dreaming of having sex with Katherine? It would be far better to have her here and actually do it with her.
Before I go back to painting, I pick up a couple of the sketches I have made of her.
My brow furrows as I examine them.
I’m not happy with them, not at all.
Sure, they are technically correct. A lot of other artists would be envious of the near-perfect likeness of my subject; but not I. I know it is Katherine because I have drawn her but at the same time it isn’t her.
For some reason I can’t quite capture the little quirky manners she has that make her so special, so deliciously unique.
I picture her nose wrinkle ever so slightly when she takes a sip of coffee. I doubt she’s even aware of it. But I love it. Every time I watch her do it, I feel like grabbing her there and then and putting my dick into her.
Not to mention the way her eyes widen in total innocence when she looks at my paintings. Her pleasure in what she is looking at is so sincere it hurts right in my gut.
Part of me still cannot believe she posed for me, in the nude.
I have painted plenty of nudes, some of them of exotic beauty, but I have never had a problem keeping sex out o
f my work, not until I met Katherine.
Painting her in the nude has been my biggest challenge. The woman oozes sex appeal and does not even know it. And that’s just a tiny fraction of it; it goes beyond the sex. There’s a certain innocent rawness to her, and I somehow managed to capture that while she slept.
My face darkens as I recall her shattered expression when that the jerk Dale had been to her apartment. If I see that dick again near Katherine, I think I’ll punch him right between the eyes.
I put the sketches back down.
Stop daydreaming, I tell myself, and pick up the paintbrush.
Unfortunately the flow has been stifled. Thoughts of Katherine have left me yearning for her.
I need to see her, touch her, kiss her and do other things with her now.
My fine paintbrush adds some blue to my creation. I frown. Have I really just drawn the outline of a cloud in the likeness of Katherine’s ass?
I chuckle.
This is bad.
My passion for this woman, one that isn’t even here in my apartment today, is unbelievable. I’ve never felt like this about anything or anyone before.
Stop procrastinating, Blake, just do it.
I put the paintbrush down again and go to find my phone.
Only one thing to fix this sudden new addiction I have: I need to call her, I need to call her now and ask her to come over.
My heart rate increases and little beads of sweat form in the back of my neck in anticipation as I listen to the dial tone and wait for Katherine to answer the call.
Katherine
I love the sound of my keyboard as I strike the keys. Letters form words, words form sentences and before I know it I have added another chapter to my novel.
Today I’m on fire. The words cascade onto the page.
Occasionally I glance at the dozen red roses perched on the desk to my left. The little card that came with them is now occupying a prime position on the shelf just above my workspace. Only the most precious items make it there.
The words are etched into my mind. I’m probably reading too much into them, but Robin had said I should jump off the cliff.
The alarm on my clock signals I have been writing for an hour and it’s time to take a break.
I lean back in my chair and stretch languidly, like a cat. Time for a caffeine and sugar hit. If I’m to add another two thousand words before the end of the day, I better keep writing.
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