***
The next day when I made my way down to the loft, it was once again silent. I was beginning to see a pattern here. He took pictures one day, and the next day, when he did the painting, he released his staff so he could work alone. As I made my way further into the loft, I heard a hauntingly beautiful piece of music. The lilting voice and intense piano notes echoed off the walls as a woman’s tentative lyrics weaved through the chords of the piano. She was almost speaking in a whisper yet still singing. It was utterly disturbing in its beauty. Then strings entered the mix. I closed my eyes taking it into my heart and soul. Remembering this moment for what it was. Graceful, vulnerable, everything I needed.
Click I was startled and opened my eyes to see Alec standing in front of me a camera in his hand.
“I couldn’t help myself. You were too precious, soaking in the light of grace. I had to capture it.”
I tilted my head and grinned. “Did you get what you need?” I asked with a touch of sarcasm.
“Did you?” his eyebrow quirked. Always trying to teach me a lesson, my Frenchie.
I took a breath and scanned the floor choosing to leave it at that.
“Come, there is much to do.” Alec turned on a heel and strode over to our space in the loft.
I hobbled over and took my seat. I gasped as I stared once more at my image. Only this time it was the wide canvas. One half had my picture silk screened, the other, he painted. He must have gotten up in the middle of the night after I passed out once round two of him “loving” me was finished.
“How...?” I was incapable of saying anything else as I looked at myself on the canvas. It was me facing the image he had photographed yesterday. My hand out, my forehead near the painting, only he painted my hand touching the heart on the photographed side. The way he mixed medias so uniquely was unlike anything I’d witnessed before. This is why he was a world-renowned artist and people paid obscene amounts of money for his art. And I was part of that, a big part. His muse.
“I don’t need much sleep. Once I was inspired by your body, I had to paint it.”
“Are you saying, we had sex and you were so taken by the experience you came down here and painted this?”
“Oui. Your naked body. Making love to you gave me all the energy I needed to create this beautiful image for the world to see. Now you can see, oui?”
I stared at the black and white painting. Just a hint of my naked breasts showed in the painting. I could also see the happiness in my form as my image touched the sad heart of the picture he’d taken the day before. It was as if my happy self was consoling my sad self. Shivers rippled down my spine and out my arms.
Once more, he filled a saucer with sticky paint, then walked over to me, brush in hand. He proceeded to paint my lips as I quietly admired the painting in front of me. It held me captive like there was a gnarled hand clutching my heart. My heart pounded and tears fell from my eyes. The music in the room changed. The notes were loud and sweeping in their sorrow as they pitched high then low. Trombones and trumpets blared. Alec gripped my hand, swept me into his arms and carried me over to the painting. This time he didn’t have me kiss my lips.
“Kiss here.” He pointed to the hand over the heart in the second image. I leaned forward and kissed the painted canvas. A perfect lip print shone bright red on the painted hand. He applied more paint to my lips.
He pointed to my elbow and I kissed it. More paint. The shoulder, the middle of the back in the image. More paint. For a long time he reapplied the paint, had me kiss an exposed portion of my body on his painting. We did this until there were red lip kisses all over the painting he’d done. It was odd, it didn’t take away from his art but added an entirely different element. The kiss marks were bright, stark against the black and white of the canvas and his drawing.
Once he was done, he helped me back into the seat. Methodically he wiped my lips with baby wipes removing any paint residue. Then he handed me some water and a lip balm. I swear the man thought of everything.
He walked across the room and left me to the music and the painting. I stared and stared at myself. The one I’d done the first day was hanging to the left, the red lips and tear streaking down my face in the image was startling in its sadness. The picture on the right was the same image photographed but with the addition of me facing it, hand on the heart, only there were kiss marks over every couple inches.