Page 55 of Painting Celia

At least one of them was.

He went back to his easel. Tranquilo. Breathe.

Come on, relax.

No use. The tumult inside him refused to be stamped out, so he just focused on building an impression of her in paint.

León worked furiously, grimly, layering shadows of shapes onto the canvas, painting with his eye instead of his head as he’d taught her. Much of it would be covered by vibrant colors later, but the shadows were the foundation that would give the painting depth.

Eventually, his motions slowed. He needed to move on to colors but couldn’t until they recreated this setup tonight. But, he didn’t want to stop now! The way she glistened in the sun, a sheen of perspiration on her chest—oh.

“Getting hot?” he asked. He glanced at his phone nearby. Thirty minutes, he’d painted. He hadn’t even enjoyed it.

“A little warm,” she said, her throat tight.

“Let’s break.”

He walked away, but his eyes stayed drawn to her as she slowly relaxed out of the pose. Watching as tension melted out of her was irresistible.

Clothes! Give her some clothes.

Her tank top landed on her shoulder when he tossed it at her. She pulled it on, the sun glowing through the pale khaki fabric as she stretched it over her.

Wiping her forehead with a hand, she clambered off his blankets and went to sit on the bed, the only seating area in the shade.

She looked across the room at the canvas on the easel. Did she see where it was going? It was raw and unfinished, layered with shadowy abstracts of a woman’s form. Weightless respite. Naiveté.

“That’s what you saw last night?” she asked.

“It’s got a way to go.”

She fanned herself. Water! He pulled cold bottles from the fridge and strode closer to hand her one, then leaned back against the shelves across from the daybed, crossing one ankle over the other. Casual.

He watched as she pulled up her feet to sit cross-legged and opened her water. Jesus.

Pink underwear, for god’s sake. The only piece of clothing she owned that wasn’t brown or gray, probably.

“It’s just impressions,” she said, waving her water at the easel. “I mean, just shapes.”

Discuss the painting.

“You see it, right?” he asked. “I’m trying to capture the idea. Not, you know, you.”

Her knees were shades darker than the rest of her. Too much time cleaning? Should he hint at that in the painting? It was a part of her story.

“I do see it,” she said, lifting the water to her lips, then lowering it with a glint in her eyes. “If it were a painting of me, I’d just be a red line.”

He finally smiled for the first time today. “I guess.”

Look at her, relaxing, making jokes! Sitting there cross-legged on his bed, wearing only underwear and a tank top, the hand holding her water lowering to her side. She lifted the other hand to comb back hair clinging damply to her neck. A peek of loosely creased stomach appeared as the tank top inched up.

She was all contrasts! Rough pointed knees and soft curvy midriff, shielded by crossed limbs but untroubled by her near nudity. Triangles, arcs, circles—

“I might try a blue line in tomorrow’s lesson,” she said, her eyes amused over the bottle as she finally took a drink.

Tomorrow? But he needed to work! “Yeah,” he said. “Hey, about that.”

Mid-sip, her eyebrows raised at him.

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