Lover in the Painting

She looked at me when I stroked her hair in perfect brown oil. She was beautiful, curvaceous with lips like apples. A small dip of my brush gave her legs longer than the days I’d spent dreaming of her. The corner of her right eye was smudged slightly in the one place I’d lost my focus for just a moment. It was in that small moment I’d lost myself in the joyous expression nestled in her soft brown eyes. She was perfect.

Her lips began to part as if to say something to me. My heart nearly sputtered out of my chest, my breath caught in my throat at the beauty of her hesitation. The ballerina cradled her reddening face in two small hands.

She reached a slender finger away from her face and towards my brush which hovered just on her hairline. I was unprepared for her girlish smile when she tapped a fingertip to the hairs on the brush. Had I heard her laugh, I may have tried to fall into the easel to be with her. A gentle stroke gave her flowing chocolate hair in a precarious bun atop her face heart shaped face. Curious, she followed each line as I made it, her cheeks ablaze and her smile deepening. Her eyes flitted to the other blank canvases behind me. She galloped away.

portrait-3140764_960_720

I ran to her side, following her chasses and turns in awe. She flitted from easel to easel with grace swaying her arms about. I ran to her stumbling over wooden stools and old paints to see where she may have gone next. I found her hiding in the easels just above my window, the sun bathing her in morning light I hadn’t even noticed until now. Just a wink and she flitted off to my sketchbooks. The pages came to life, flipping one after another as she danced across them. Her laugh was infectious. She galloped with ease and jumped from sheet to sheet.

She paused suddenly and turned her brown pools and rosy cheeks to meet my gaze. I hadn’t noticed until this very moment I had been holding my breath. She reached out a delicate hand to me. My quaking fingers inched towards the paper, yearning for a small touch. I found myself in the notebook at her side, my hands reduced to ticks of charcoal strokes. She placed her hand in mine and together, we ran from page to page, canvas to canvas, nearly missing the water spots ahead of us where earlier I’d become frustrated with my work.. We danced- or rather, she danced circling around me in giddy turns and strides. But she found her home in her easel. My work was completed and it was time to part ways. All too soon I found myself on the outside of her world, always looking in and longing for her love. I was shut out, trying to tap fingertips of canvas to feel her joy once more. She was all oils and paper again, leaving a melancholy ache in my chest. But her smile always reminded me of what I had. I always had her. Always had the dancer in the painting. My lover in the painting.  

Who can blame Irma….

The funny thing about Florida is that it only really has two settings when it comes to whether: Hell hot or hurricane. Today seems to be masterful combination of the two as we await for Irma’s arrival. Kind of makes you long for the old Florida before the madness. Just a few days ago, there was no breeze but plenty of sunlight- sunlight that would gladly remind you that nothing is safe from the 90 degree heat. The air is humid, moist and a bit hard to breathe. It makes you feel like you’re finally suracing from deep under water, only to shut you down and sink you five feet further. Florida. A place where it rains on one side of the road and not the other, where it pours for literally 5 minutes then blesses you with sunshine for the rest of the day. What a bitch. She makes you think she’s doing you a favor by giving you sunshine, but really it’s a cruel way to heat the air she has already moistened and made difficult to inhale. What a bitch. Maybe I’m a pessimist who doesn’t like sunshine or flowers. Actually, I am in fact a pessimist who hates sunshine and flowers. But before you gather the mob and pitchforks allow me to explain. I didn’t want to be here. Ever. Florida seems to have an alluring nature about it that never quite appealed to me. Most will ignore the flying roaches, mother nature’s mood swings and the bloodsuckers with wings in favor of Disneyland and vacation homes. Let us just ignore the fact that Disney is overrrated and unnecessarily expensive and that the US’s largest pedophile population resides in the sunshine state.

These things aside, truly the weather only bothers me for one particular reason. It is too personal. Even mother nature weeps violently in the summer months, tries her hardest to cover her sorrows in sunshine. She licks her wounds in glowing light to compensate for her human moments. She only makes things so much worse.  In her Fall months she whips and howls along the coasts and warm waters of the ocean. Destruction and terror are her only path as she hides her pain. She is ripped of her resources, leaving scars in her body only to continue to care for her abusers. She is left bled dry with gashes on her skin. It sounds too familiar… maybe I’m just overthingking things. I suppose I cannot blame Mother Nature for her cries. Maybe we’re too much of the same. What a bitch.

woman-1581202_960_720