Page 84 of Painting Celia

He reached out to touch her arm under the water so gently he didn’t even rouse ripples.

Celia smiled, lulled by the touch, but León suspected she wasn’t done musing on it. She always seemed hesitant when she served him food. It made him feel worse about giving her nothing but art. Her talent was cooking, and his was painting. She wouldn’t limit herself for his sake, would she?

•••

The week before the exhibition, León was painting her sitting cross-legged, cocky and defiant. The memory of her sitting on his cot, telling him off, was begging to be painted in reds. Celia had to stand often to relieve the strain on her knees and back.

“Come tell me what you feel in this one,” he said. Getting her impressions was more fun with every painting.

She approached and considered. Did she see the how the deep red triangles, improbably balancing on each other, resolved into anger, irreverence, and a seated woman? Her spiky face echoed in the pink triangle between her wide-spread knees.

“It’s sex,” she said. “But also teasing. You can’t have it. All the thorns mean ‘stay away.’”

León looked at her, blinking. She kept noticing elements he hadn’t intended. It was okay, but he somehow forgot while he painted that she saw things from different angles.

“Did I miss the point again?” she asked.

“No, no. I just was going somewhere else. Somewhere close,” he amended as she looked anxious. “This is your righteous anger at me for being inconsiderate that one day. Your power, refusing me right when I realized I needed to paint you.”

“I can see that,” she said, leaning close to inspect the jagged red face.

“Why do you feel she’s teasing?” he asked, genuinely curious. He hadn’t meant it to be teasing.

“Well, it’s such a sexual posture. She’s spread out, inviting you to see, but the face and all the sharp ends say stop. So, it’s…it’s about denial.” She looked pleased to have found the right word.

León paused, looking again. Had he accidentally painted what she saw? Instead of her wrath and authority, had he been painting something he felt at the time but didn’t realize?

Maybe.

He’d wanted her then, for sure. Maybe he was painting his own unseen anger at her rejection of him that day. Their conversation had been entirely different then, but…damn.

“Mi musa, you’re a prize.”

•••

Celia leaned back in the corner of the sectional couch after dinner, stretching her legs. These days she was either on her feet or sitting in an uncomfortable position. It was a far cry from the empty days before, when she didn’t have enough to do to tire her out. It felt good, even with the pain.

León came out of his studio room, having finished his nightly cleanup. He gravitated to her on the couch, sitting and patting his lap so she would put her feet up on him.

“Who was your first crush?” he asked, rubbing her feet absently. She let her head fall back, cheeks turning pink.

“Don’t laugh! Mario Lopez.” She peeked to gauge his reaction. He didn’t laugh.

“Not a boy at school?” She shook her head. “What was it about him?”

She had to think. “He was cute, of course. But I guess I liked his confidence. He acted like everything would go his way, and it did. On TV, I mean.”

León nodded along.

“I think that’s why I first went out with Andrew,” she continued. “He has that same vibe.”

This time León laughed.

“When was your first kiss?” she asked back.

It was his turn to redden.

“A girl in elementary school. She was hanging upside down on the monkey bars. I kissed her, then ran away.” He saw Celia’s eye roll. “I knew she liked me, though. Her friend told me.”

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