Page 81 of Painting Celia

“A few times.” It had exhausted her, all the dense crowds. “It’s not an easy place for a shy person.”

“No, it wouldn’t be. So, is it time for a break?”

God yes. She relaxed and took her weight off of her knee.

“Nearly done,” he said. “Come look.”

She flexed her joints before walking stiffly over.

The tenuous ghostly figure looked done to her. He’d even added that dark spot on her neck.

“Untouchable Celia,” he smiled, reaching out to run a finger down her bare arm. She shivered.

“I’m not sure I get it,” she said. “I mean, I get having imagination, but you said it’s what’s inside me, something you can’t see or know. Why is it…this?”

“I’m painting the feeling I got then. And I couldn’t paint it after I get to know you, right?”

She couldn’t paint her own inner self. She couldn’t even imagine an image that would be close, but León just charged ahead and made this beautiful vision.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. Cooking, she could do.

“Not for food, reinita.”

His roguish smile banished her cares and soreness.

•••

León could not be happier. Celia was perfect. His paintings were perfect. Every hour was perfect!

He woke before the sun every morning in her fluffy cloud of a bed, Celia warm and tranquil beside him, the daybed outside already fading from memory. He couldn’t waste time sleeping, waiting as long as he could stand before waking her with quiet morning talk.

They’d paint for an hour, then he’d release her to putter in the house. What she found to clean was beyond him; everything was always spotless, towels laundered, surfaces gleaming. When she called him for breakfast, there were never dirty dishes in the sink.

He reached out to touch her constantly, any time he felt the urge. She was still quiet, but her body told him what she liked. She always welcomed his soft touches. She liked it even more when he was a little rough or possessive, trembling as she looked up with wide, yielding eyes, teasing that she didn’t belong to him while her body said the opposite.

He craved the time she’d approach, touching him first, but could never wait long enough. She would, he knew, if he wasn’t always there first.

Her lesson was always later, later, but she didn’t complain. When Andrew invited himself over, she put him off too. Their perfect days were spent painting.

And then came the nights. The perfect nights.

•••

With three weeks to go until the exhibition, León was finishing the yellow painting.

“The light and shadow in this one are so sharp,” Celia said, feeling the soreness in her neck as she came to look.

He grinned, unable to touch her with paintbrush and palette in hand. “The sight of you in those golden shadows, agreeing to pose…I should have kissed you right then.”

She blushed, still somehow able to feel bashful at his declarations. He never seemed to feel embarrassed by them.

“What feelings do you get from it?” he asked. Her lessons kept getting put off, but he still asked that about everything, helping her practice.

The painting was a cubist face in blazing yellows, with slashes of pale light and umber shadows from an unseen spotlight. It was looking up at the viewer, the eyes quietly bold. A hint of insecurity in the foreshortened shoulders and collarbone faded away below. The face said strength, but the posture said submission.

Celia was getting better at interpreting León’s work.

“I see caution,” she said. “She’s pretending to cower.”

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