Page 9 of I Love My Mistake
Chapter Six
At His…Our… Studio - Weeks Later
Ihaven’t seen Michael in over a month. I’ve been good… or he’s not been there when I’ve dropped by. It’s been too long, so tonight something overcame me and I find myself standing outside the studio door with the key in my hand. I let myself in and call up to him, “Michael?” No answer. Walking up, I take a look around. I can see from the shine on the confetti-like paint droplets below the easel, that they’re still wet.
He was just here.
I must have just missed him. Again, I won’t be able to see his face, hear his voice, smell him.Even worse – like fate is teasing me – one of the cream-colored candles still glows with a low flame, the wax surrounding it disintegrated down to an inch.
“Michael?” Instantly I hope against hope that he didn’t hear the longing. I heard it. But he’s not here, and only silence bounces back. I should have called, told him I was coming. Maybe we could have worked beside each other, talked… anything. A month is too long. I feel like I could claw my eyes out.
I pick up a blank canvas and prop it against a wall. I lied to myself when I thought I was coming here to work, that it would be better if he weren’t here so I could focus. It’s never better when he’s not here.
Lose him, Jason whispers in my memory. “Shut up, Jason.”
I step over to get a look at what he was working on and the second I see it, my breath catches from shock. He’s painted a woman with her hair wild, her skin vibrant and dark, and an aura surrounding her. The painting is mostly is in reds, gold, and burnt sienna. Tiny sparkles of sweat form in the hidden parts of me as I inspect the lines because the more I look, the more I am dumbfounded. Is this chaos of frenzied strokes, me? One time I saw him and my hair was a shock of tight curls, natural, big and wild. He’d said he liked it that way, that it suited me more than straightening it. “Don’t try to be like everyone else. You’re different. Be that.” I listened, and more and more I wore it wild. I’m wearing it that way tonight even. Probably because I wanted to make him happy, more than anything else.
This painting - the raw passion of it – it’s like he’s been missing me as much as I’ve missed him. Maybe my break from him hurt him as much as it hurt me? I reach out and touch the canvas, feel a drop of wet paint cool the tip of my finger. I close my eyes and imagine him here, propelled forward by inspiration, unable to stop until he finished this portrait of…
“Nicole.”
I yank my finger back and my eyes shoot open to see him standing at the top of the stairs. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I see that.” He strolls to me, the leather jacket he’s wearing over jeans and black t-shirt, is the only thing clear of smudges and specks. He takes it off and lays it on the couch, the muscles of his back pulling his t-shirt tight for an instant. He turns and walks to me. “What do you think?”
The spicy scent of him wafts to me, making my body react. I hold his eyes. “It’s beautiful.”
His eyes narrow. He comes to stand beside me, to see what I see. “You think so?” he asks, looking at it with me. It feels more like a test than a question.
I ask, “Is it me?”
He turns to me and like his body is a magnet, mine turns to him, too, and I touch his face. He reaches up and touches my cheek, looking at it like it’s the softest, most interesting cheek he’s ever seen. Is tonight the night? Is that why he painted me…
He leans in and gives my cheek a kiss that is so tender, I want to cry. The tip of my nose gets a kiss, too, soft and gentle as a butterfly. Then my lips feel the pressure of his, and I slide my arms around his neck as our kiss builds. I press my body into his, needing so much to be close to him. The pressure impassions him. He kisses me harder, presses his tongue against mine, licking it sensually. I feel tingles and sensations moving through my body as we explore each other’s mouths. The feelings build until we’re feverish. Please ease this ache I feel every time I see you, Michael. We’re gasping and moaning and I know now that this is the night. His hands travel around me with a hunger that matches my own. I’ve waited long enough. We’ve waited long enough. We grind our hips together like two people who haven’t touched another human being in years, moaning and kissing until he lets out a growl and releases my mouth, my ass, my body…
Releases…me.
My eyes fly open to see him retreating from me, now more than five feet away and growing. He says over his shoulder, heading for the stairs, “Not tonight.”
I let out a sound of aching that I’ve never heard myself make before, confused and outside of my own body in disbelief! As he disappears from view and only the sound of his feet departing can be heard, I run over and yell down, “When?!! For God’s sake, Michael – WHEN?!”
His voice is huskier than normal, his eyes troubled and angry as he looks up and says firmly, “Not tonight,” like a teacher to an impatient student who’s come so far.
He leaves, the door opening and closing with all of the weight of everything that lies between us. I yell out, “Why do you do this!!?” The silence that follows, the questions he’s left behind, the absence of him… it crushes me and I crumble to the ground.
“I will not see him again,” I tell myself, aloud. Breathing heavily, I look up and see the mesmerizing painting of the woman, the woman who must be me. The colors of it dazzle and anger me. I stare at it from where I sit until something happens inside me. Aloud to the now burnt-out candle, to the painting above me, to the empty room, to everything, I whisper hoarsely, fighting back tears, “You want to break me? You want me to become stronger? You’re doing both. And I’m beginning to hate you for it.”
I stand, dust myself off, take a deep breath and gather my things together. An urge to paint comes over me. Should I? My glance falls on the empty canvas I’d set out when I first got here, and it calls to me now, come. Take out your pain and anguish on me. But I look away, don’t go to it. Instead, I walk downstairs, and go home.