A Daddy for Mother's Day

by Natalie Knight

  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.

  Blake

  Standing in the doorway of the studio I see Katherine across the room staring at the painting, and she’s not smiling. I can’t quite read her expression, and I think surely, she’d have some sort of reaction by now. Silly me, I was actually expecting euphoria, or at least pleasant surprise.

  Anything but this seemingly blank look.

  “So…?” I nearly spit out the word as I amble over to where she’s standing, “What do you think?”

  Katherine is silent. She’s doing a slow pace in front of the canvas. Her arms folded in front of her chest in an almost protective stance. She’s wearing a pout, and it’s a far cry from the sexy one she gave when she was posing. I don't know what to think.

  "So…?” I repeat, this time with an edge to my voice, “Come on Katherine, even doctors don’t take this long to give an opinion.”

  She doesn’t look away from the canvas and her voice is a monotone when she finally utters, “I’m thinking.”

  There’s more silence, and after a few minutes she finally speaks.

  “Honestly, I’m not quite sure what to say.”

  “Seriously? You’re the writer, why not try by putting one word after the next? That might work.”

  Katherine gives me a sharp look and it’s clear she doesn’t appreciate the sarcasm, and her response is just as biting.

  “Yes, I know what I am, but nowhere in my CV does it state that I’m an art critic.”

  “Phfft…critics. I’ve never given one solitary fuck about critics. They’re dilettantes, the lot of them. They have no skills of their own. They’re all cowards, just sitting on the sidelines watching and waiting to pounce on someone’s work. What's that old saying, 'Those who can, do, those who can't, teach, and those who can't do either become critics!”

  “I couldn’t have said it better. And that’s precisely why I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to make hasty judgments.”

  “Katherine, you’re not one of them. You never could be. I just want to know what you think. What you feel when you look at it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, I’ve never painted anything like this.”

  “Oh, please. You’ve probably painted dozens and dozens of women. I’m no different.”

  “You think that? You can look at it and believe it’s like anything else I’ve ever done?”

  She doesn’t nod yes or no. She doesn’t move, she simply stares at the canvas.

  Rubbing my forehead with the palm of my hand, I turn away. At this moment, her opinion means everything. And everything I feel for her is on that canvas.

  “Katherine, you understand it isn’t finished,” I say. “There’s more work to be done, but the bones, the emotion, the essence of it is there.”

  I’m begging for a reaction, but she seems frozen, with no words or movement. And after what seems like an eternity, she nods her head. It’s almost imperceptible, but I’m noticing everything about her, including the dust motes against the sunlight that surround her frame.

  “Hmm…” she muses, and begins to turn away.

  I grab her wrist and pull her toward me. She doesn’t protest, but when she looks at me, her eyes are sad.

  “Listen, this is the best thing I’ve ever done.”

  “But…it’s…raw…it’s so personal.”

  “Of course it is. This is personal,” I say pointing to her and me, and the painting. “You are personal”

  I stop and take a breath, but I don’t loosen my grip on her wrist, and I don’t move away. I’m waiting for her to look me in the eye.

  “This is personal,” I repeat it as a whisper, “and your opinion matters.”

  “I feel as if you’re hounding me,” she says, her words laced with anger,

  “I am not hounding. I just painted what I believe is my best work. You are the subject. You brought that out in me. You are my muse, for God’s sake! Is it too much to ask what you fucking think?”

  I am yelling, and I feel her pull away emotionally. That’s something I can’t afford to happen. I need her because she is my source of inspiration. So, I make one last ditch effort.

  “Katherine, I know…you feel something. Good, bad, or indifferent…just, please, tell me.”

  “You cannot show this painting to anyone,” she finally says.

  But there’s a catch in her voice, tears in her eyes.

  “Are you crying? What’s happening?”

  She shakes my hand off her wrist and wipes at the tears. “I don’t know how you did it. I knew you were talented, but that doesn’t describe what you’ve created here.”

  She is speaking so slowly, I want to reach in and grab the words from her throat, but I know if I rush her, I’ll lose her. So I stand, fists clenched, in anticipation for her next words.

  “Blake, you don’t need me to tell you that this is beautiful, because it is. But it is so much more than that. It’s alive. It’s real. It’s many, many things. But I’m embarrassed when I look at it. And before you say anything, it’s not because I’m naked. No, that’s not it. It’s because you’ve captured something inside me that no one else has ever seen, and you've managed to paint that. My vulnerability. My fears. My...innocence.”

  Now I’m the one with tears in my eyes, because she’s put into words what I could not express.

  “I can’t let you show this to anyone,” she says.


  I almost don’t believe what I’m hearing. “What? Why? You’ve just told me in so many words this is my masterpiece. Why would I not want others to see it?”

  “Blake, please, I’m begging you. I can’t be on display like this. It’s too personal and I do not want anyone but you to see me this way.”

  Katherine

  “You’ve gotta be kidding,” Blake tells me, his words filled with frustration.

  I cannot deny it, the painting, even unfinished is amazing.

  The detail sends shivers down my spine. My nipples, I’ve never really studied my nipples as closely as Blake obviously has.

  I’m not sure if it is just me but the longer I look at myself, images of our sexual escapades flash through my mind. Will other people see the sex we’ve had?

  I can almost see Blake caressing gently between my legs, his tongue on my clit and hands on my breasts.

  Sexual desire oozes from the canvass.

  “It’s just too personal,” I turn to Blake who is casually leaning on his workbench, his piercing gaze set on me.

  He tilts his head to the left.

  “Nudes are personal.” Blake says. I see the glint in his eyes and I feel naked even though I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

  ‘You know what I mean.’ I roll my eyes.

  I walk to the canvass and point to my neck.

  “See the way you’ve darkened my skin there ever so slightly?”

  Blake pretends to squint and study the spot I’m pointing to.

  “And?” He looks so innocent, like he truly has no idea what I’m talking about.

  “Well,” I try and work out how to explain this so he understands where I’m coming from. “It’s really personal. A private thing. Only someone who gets really close to me would notice the subtle change in my skin.”

  I fold my arms.

  “What can I say, Kat: you inspire me. You bring out the artist in me. This is you. I’m just the painter.”

  I sigh.

  “No.” I shake my head. “It’s so much more than this.”

  Should I go out on a limb and tell him all? The painting reveals so much about me, about who I really am, but at the same time…

  “It looks like we have had sex. It looks like the artist, you, wants to jump my bones.”

  Blake laughs.

  “So what? I’m not ashamed to admit we are sleeping together.”

  Unable to stand still, I start to pace the length of the studio. I need to move. I need to walk to be able to clearly express my emotions.

  I walk up and down, back and forth. Blake simply watches. He seems confused. He cannot understand where I’m coming from.

  “It’s too personal.” I blurt out again. “I think it’s way too personal to be out on exhibition for the world to see me. I…” I trail off for a moment, and I sigh before continuing. “I know the whole world won’t be looking at me, but you know what I mean.”

  Blake still says nothing. He is looking at me and then back at the painting.

  Eventually he shrugs.

  “I don’t get it. It’s you. All of you. You come through the painting just the way you are.”

  “Exactly.” I’ve stopped pacing. Hands on hips I look at him.

  “Exactly what?”

  The little smile around his lips leaves me confused. Is he trying not to understand or does he really not understand?

  “Anyone that looks at me will see all this sex aura around me.” I try again.

  “What’s wrong with that? You’re perfect.”

  He comes toward me. Next minute I’m in his arms. He kisses my face, neck and arms.

  “You’re delicious. You’re sexy.”

  I push away from him. It’s not that I don’t want him, it’s just my brain shuts down the minute there’s close personal contact between us.

  If I want him to understand how important this is to me I must keep a clear head.

  “But it’s just that the world will see me that way. Complete strangers will drool over me, maybe.”

  Again Blake shrugs.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  Obviously I’m not getting my point across.

  “I’ve told you before. You inspire me. You inspire this painting. It’s you.”

  “Yeah. But it’s too intimate.”

  I can see Blake study the artwork again, as if being a critique.

  “You write?” His gaze returns to me.

  Since I’m not sure if this is a rhetorical question or not I nod.

  “And isn’t your writing inspired by personal matters, by intimate occasions and maybe even people you meet and fuck?”

  His crudeness surprises me.

  “It does.” I hesitate. “But it’s only words. Words on paper, words people read and re-interpret. Sometimes my experiences and what inspires me is left out so the reader can imagine it using their own experiences and put their own interpretation on it.”

  As Blake seems to ponder my words I try and remember what one of my lecturers said during my studies.

  “Writing is not really original. Everything has been written before.” I pause. There was something about writing being the clashing of words, but I’m not sure if this will add anything. “Every writer is shaped by what has been written by someone else. Writers are readers. When I write, I reinterpret what has been written by someone else.”

  I can see in Blake’s facial expression that he is trying to understand what I’m saying. He isn’t simply dismissing me. Dale used to dismiss me, and what I had to say all the time.

  Suddenly, it seems a lifetime ago that Dale had been my partner. And I cannot recall what I ever saw in the man to make me even want to be with him.

  “And so when people read, they interpret what I’ve written in their own way. It doesn’t have anything to do with what my inspiration and experiences are during the time I am writing it.”

  Blake seems to chew over my words.

  “I still don’t see what’s your problem with the painting. Don’t people also interpret what they see?”

  I laugh and point at myself in the nude, my heart tightening up as my eyes meet my naked curves again.

  “Blake…it’s too personal. It’s intimate,” I repeat for what feels like the hundredth time. “I don’t want everyone to see the true me. You caught a glimpse of that, and you’ve captured it…isn’t that enough?”

  We both say nothing for a few minutes. I can hear the ticking of the clock in the kitchen.

  Eventually it is Blake who breaks the silence first.

  “What are you trying to say, Kat…?”

  He has closed the distance between us and I snuggle into his arms.

  “I don’t want you to put me on display. By ‘me’, I mean the painting.”

  After I utter the last few words, I nuzzle my face into his chest. He smells so delicious. Will he be angry?

  I can feel his lips on the top of my head. He is kissing me.

  “If you don’t want me to display your beauty to the world, so be it.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Promise?”

  Now he pulls my face toward his.

  “Promise.” He whispers before his lips meet mine.

  Katherine

  As expected, the Old Pearl has a queue out the front door. If it wasn’t for the fact that I knew one of the owners, Nicole, I would be right outside with about other fifty or so patrons wanting to have lunch here.

  In a matter of weeks, it has become the restaurant in town to be seen at. The food is amazing.

  I check my watch. Five minutes late. Robin was rarely late. She better have a good excuse. I don’t like to impose on others and I know a table is being kept for us.

  To distract myself, I focus on the artwork near the entrance.

  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 afte
r 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.