Page 3 of I Love My Mistake
Chapter Two
At His… Our…Studio
Locking the door behind me, I hang my coat on the hooks inside the studio I’ve shared with the painter Michael Benitez for the past six months. He and I met at an exhibit opening for a sculptor neither of us knew personally. I didn’t like Michael at first; thought his disdain for the work to be rude and too loudly expressed by his face and demeanor. Spaniards can be snobbish. You can even hear their assumed superiority in their lisping dialects, over the more accessible Spanish spoken by people from South America.
But the more I talked to him, the more that first impression changed. We chatted for almost an hour before his seductively slow gestures and dark, penetrating glances got the better of me. He was dryly witty, and his dark cloud touched the dark cloud hidden inside of me. Listening to his critique – “You see how she carved out this line here… she didn’t follow through with the passion of the movement. If she’d allowed herself to really be this work, I would feel it. I don’t.” – I had nodded and soaked in every word. I watched his lips move, the intensity of his deep-set russet-colored eyes punctuating his words with passion. His long hair flowed freely around the olive complexion of his face, as though it were a mane. Being with him made me light-headed and it wasn’t long before I was almost overcome by the impulse to kiss him in front of everyone. Not a peck, but the kind of kiss that would have made the room blush.
They say you can’t do heroin, not even once, because you’re sure to become addicted, your life changed… forever. I never understood that, until I met Michael. Maybe that first impulse in me – the one that didn’t like him – was my inner voice screaming, run.
“I’m here,” I call up, as I ascend the stairs.
Michael’s deep voice echoes against the walls and travels down to lick my ears, his accent heavy and welcoming. “There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.”
I want to run to him – I always want this – but I keep my pace steady, take my time, measure my breathing, even as my beating heart races. The large open loft-space of familiar white reveals itself, bit by bit. I look over to see him intently inspecting his latest work. He’s wearing his usual uniform; dark jeans hand-wiped with paint, long deep chestnut hair flowing freely past his olive-hued, broad shoulders, bare beneath a white paint-covered, ripped tank-top. No shoes. His skin and hair are highlighted from the glow of over two dozen candles clustered on flat surfaces. This is the way he prefers to paint. I’ve adopted it as my own now, too, when I’m alone here. Even though my alone time is always lit by sunlight shining through the glass, since he has the nights, and me, the days.
This space has been a Godsend to me, and when he’d suggested I share it with him – on that very first night – I jumped at the chance. This part of town is so hip, completely overpriced and filled with designer’s boutiques. We’re tucked above one, and he’s reluctantly allowed me to pitch in to help with rent. I could never have afforded it on my own. At least, not yet. Maybe someday. Him? He doesn’t need the money. His pieces sell before they’re even finished. It’s humbling for an arrogant woman such as myself. But I like it.
The studio is just how you’d imagine an artist’s loft space. Paint everywhere. Canvases stacked. Sparse furniture. One wall with large paned windows that could use a good cleaning.
He looks me up and down, takes in my clothes. “How was your date?”
I smile at the accuracy of his guess and roll my eyes. “You mean, how was my last date.”
He touches the brush to canvas once more and whispers while concentrating, “Ahh…not enough man to tame my Nic? Needed to come back to me, didn’t you.” It’s not a question. We both know he’s right on the mark, though I don’t like he said it out in the open like that. Makes me feel like he knows how much power he has over me. He looks back up and changes the subject in the smoothest way. “I’ve been looking at this piece of yours…”
My heart jumps in my chest as he motions to my swirl of greens and blues with gold emotional accents, lying on the canvas by the south wall. It’s my most unusual, by far. You can usually see more Matisse influences in my work. This one, though, has none of that.
I ask, “And?” waiting with breath held.
He steps over to it, touching the tip of his index finger to his lips as he thinks. He glides his hand through the air in front of a small section. “I feel you right here…” He points to other parts and says, “…but here, and here, and here? You are absent.”
My chest caves in. “You mean everywhere else.”
He turns and locks eyes with me. “Yes.”
I look at the floor, the walls, my legs. I’m so disappointed. “God. Are you kidding me? You’ve seen how much I’m putting into this. What is it I’m missing?!” I walk over to the table, pick up a candle and start playing with the wax. He pulls his hair away from his face with both hands, then locks them behind his head, watching me, thinking. The silence is intense and when I turn around, there is only compassion in his eyes. Maybe a bit of impatience, too? I might be projecting.
I slam the candle down, wax spilling hot onto my fingers, but I don’t care. “Tell me! I can see it in your face that you have the answer.”
He lets his hands go and walks over to his own work again, picking up the brush. “Nic… you hit the wall until it can no longer stand up to you. This is how it is for us.”
Artists, he means, those of us who see the world through kaleidoscopes.
I moan and walk to my canvas that until just now, I was happy with. Not overjoyed… but pleased. I’m not pleased anymore, I can tell you that. I can see what he saw now. The absence of my soul. Dammit! We’re not scientists. What we do transcends the mind. That’s the difference. Picasso painted from his soul. Monet… soul. Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Basquiat, Pollack – soul, soul, soul, soul. Me? I just made something pretty. It’s not enough.
Looking at it, I whisper, “How can I break through?”
He walks up behind me and slides his arms around my waist, pulling me to him. I lean against his chest, feel the strength of his muscles tighten against my back. The feel of him both calms and ignites me. He’s like my teacher more than my peer, and when he touches me, it’s like I’m being touched by one of the greats… like I’m lucky. Like any woman on the planet would kill to trade places with me, and yet it’s me he wants. Me he offered to share this private space with. I relax into him as he begins to kiss my neck, sending shivers down my body.
Michael whispers in my ear, “You… are the only one who can break your wall down. Smash it!” He kisses my earlobe. “What are you afraid of?”
I breathe, “I don’t know how,” lulled by the moist, warm, hypnotizing caresses of his mouth.
His fingers lightly circle the soft cotton that covers my nipple, until it becomes hard, grateful. I push my ass against the stiffness growing in his jeans and whisper, “Make love to me, Michael. Please. Take me away from this.”
He pulls away and walks back to his canvas. “Not tonight. Not yet.”
Abandoned, I sway from the unexpected loss of his body. Looking at him with deep frustration, I ask, “Why do you always pull away from me? We’ve never…” I want to say fucked, but I stop myself. “We’ve never made love. Is there something wrong with me? I know you’re attracted to me. I just felt the evidence.”