Page 17 of Taking A Chance

She’s wringing her hands together in front of her, biting her bottom lip. “I thought,” she pauses, “I thought to myself this might be the only time I ever get painted by a professional. And I want to step outside my comfort zone. Be a little vulnerable. Maybe even sexy.”

The tension in my jaw draws tight and I resolve to nod, understanding what she means. For some women, they want the painting to be a reflection of themselves in a manner that’s outside their normal character. Something bold. Something sexy. Something wild or carefree. They all have their own preferences. And just like I said, they often take full advantage.

“Sit over here,” I urge, pointing to the space in front of me where the light filters in from the street. Given it’s dark out, all the streetlamps are on, casting delicate shadows in different directions.

She steps lightly and I notice she’s barefoot too, her toes painted black to match everything else she’s wearing. Cora stands a bit awkwardly in front of the chair at first and finally sits, pulling her knees up as she looks around and finally, at me.

“What do I do?” she asks.

“Just talk to me, and I’ll tell you when to stop moving,” I say, giving her a smile. I want her to relax, to feel comfortable so her personality comes through.

“Talk about what?” she asks.

“Anything you want,” I say. “I can ask questions if it helps?”

“Okay. Do that.” She laughs nervously.

“What do you do for a living?” I ask. Something simple to get the ball rolling.

“I own my own boutique marketing company.”

“Wow, that’s actually really cool,” I say.

“And all my staff are women,” she adds.

“Also impressive,” I say, nodding. I don’t say that as a means to blindly compliment her. It actually is very impressive to me.

“Yeah, I pretty much have everything I wanted in my five-year plan,” she admits.

“You made a five-year plan and actually stuck to it?” Everyone I know derailed almost immediately. Life has a way of reading your plan, laughing in your face, and ripping it up more often than not.

“Pretty much. I wanted a certain amount of growth within my startup, which I’ve achieved. Other things escape me though,” she says.

“What other things?” I ask, leaning in to her words as they trail off into nothing.

Cora’s eyes falter, drifting down to the ground and then back up. My suit jacket slips from one shoulder and before she can pull it back up, I hold out my hand.

“Wait. Leave it.”

Her eyes connect with mine over her bare shoulder and I lean in closer to my canvas.

“Don’t move anything. You can still talk, but try not to move anything else,” I say.

“I wanted to be married by now,” she continues. “I wanted a house and a husband and it’s all terribly cliché but it’s what I wanted.”

I press my paintbrush to the canvas, swirling colors to form her silhouette, framing her arm and chest on the canvas. “And no one you’ve been on dates with had that potential?”

It’s as if her entire body sighs, even while sitting still. “Something like that,” she says. “I think I’m defective or something.”

My eyes sweep over her limbs, across her breasts, and up her neck. I do this in the most professional manner I can muster. It isn’t like me to ogle who I’m painting, but there’s something in Cora’s raw vulnerability coupled with the way she looks right now that I can’t ignore. The freckled patterns across her shoulder and clavicle are a constellation of questions I want the answers to.Whoa. You’re getting carried away in the paint, dude.I shake the strange thoughts from my mind and return to my strokes.

“I doubt you’re defective,” I scoff, with a laugh.

“Oh yeah? I’ve been on almost sixty first dates in the past two years,” she says on a breath.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I just detected a slight wobble in her chin. “I doubt that’s your fault.”

“I’m the common denominator,” she argues.

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