Page 46 of Painting Celia

Andrew’s hands roamed a little further down onto her hips.

“I won’t even ask for breakfast, Celia, promise.”

“You don’t have to talk me into it. Yes.”

He picked her up with arms back around her waist, kissing her neck, tickling her where he knew she liked it. “Maybe you’ll get those birthday spankings after all.”

She laughed and squirmed in his arms. “Oh, no, I won’t!” she said. “Here, put me down. Let’s get the lights.”

He helped her shut down the house, knowing as well as she did which low lights to leave on. The cake and sculpture they left out, shutting the bedroom door behind them.

Nine

Andrew’s loving was practiced, familiar, and it felt wonderful to be touched after so long. He was generous in bed, as he always had been. His sensitive brown hands slipped around her curves as though she were clay, his velvet murmurs urged and enveloped and celebrated.

However, the beer, food, and sex had him deeply asleep after an hour. Celia lay awake, skin sweaty and muscles pleasantly sore. Her bed felt too hot, her head too full now that she had time to think back over the evening.

Opening up with Kelsey felt good. Why had she avoided it? Why had she picked friends who let her stay locked up out of respect? León may be blunt about things, but he was good for her. A catalyst. A friend. She was learning more than painting, definitely.

Being honest with herself felt good too. When Andrew hinted at staying over, he took her ‘no’ with his usual good humor. She rarely considered that she might enjoy having him stay. Tonight she’d done what she felt like doing; León would be proud that she’d let her feelings guide her. Well, it wasn’t really his business, but she could be vague and not give specifics. He’d be pleased with her progress.

Wide awake, Celia gently slipped from the bed. Andrew would sleep like a rock, but she’d get a drink of water or maybe step outside to cool off.

•••

León tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Completed studies littered the daybed around him, maybe twenty charcoal sketches, attempts at replicating the organic curve that had fired his imagination. Andrew’s little sculpture had done its job.

It was the arch of the back, he’d discovered—right where her hip swelled into that curve of her waist, flowing over her ribcage and up.

He’d gotten the curve onto canvas, though. Where the painting would go next, he didn’t know. The arch itself was the crucial shape. He looked at it again, scrolling up like the stem of a wine glass flowing to the bowl, a tendril of smoke curling lazily to the ceiling. It could be anything as long as he captured the line.

He turned the statue again, viewing the front. Maybe that curve under the ribs, that shape just at the front of her hip. That one had potential too. He picked up the charcoal again.

•••

Celia opened the sliding door of the house, the mild air refreshing her sweaty skin. She left the door open to let the house breathe in some of the coolness.

She’d pulled on her robe but hadn’t bothered dressing. She wouldn’t be outside long. After checking that the fire was out, she walked to the pool’s edge, looking over the city lights, sipping her glass of cold water.

She felt good, unafraid for once to think instead of keeping busy. Just standing, being, feeling better than she had in days. León was right: if one paid attention to one’s body, actual sensations accompanied feelings. She’d ignored them for so long that the warmth and lightness inside her were a surprise.

Maybe she would get into the pool and float for a little while.

She turned her head to look at the house. No lights shone other than the usual low ones in the living room. Andrew would sleep until morning. He knew her bed; he was comfortable there.

Turning the other way to view the pool house, Celia saw the lamp shining behind the shades but no shadows, no movement. León was either absorbed or asleep.

He kept himself closeted inside much more than she’d expected. Was he happy when he was inside, creating? How did he feel when he made real art? He’d said the whole point was honesty between the painter and the viewer. But how did one paint honesty? How could it be drawn, or sculpted, or sung?

León had praised what he called her emotional story, her silly childlike lines of color. How could she do it again, better? What truth did she have to tell?

The question stumped her. He’d stopped helping her right when she was beginning to understand.

She decided to get in the pool. She could think there, maybe figure it out on her own this time. She dropped her robe on a chair and walked to the pool steps, the gentle breeze on her nude body refreshing and familiar.

It was almost a shame to disturb the mirror finish of the water, but ruffling it was one of her favorite parts. A chill enveloped her body as she went deeper, but only at first. The water spread out from her body in expanding waves, rippling softly against the tiled walls. It was beautiful, standing at the center of a web of waving lights.

If she was going to figure anything out, it’d be here, now, after a night of small successes. She turned to float on her back, letting her mind clear. What was an honest thing she wanted to tell someone?

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