Without thinking about it, I walk over to its silent form. I light the lamps around it. It glows white, but the blankness is no longer a taunt. Instead, it is an invitation.
Preparing the paints is like a ritual. Browns, reds, blues, greens. The thick acrylic stays where I want it. There was a time when acrylic was cheap and of low quality, but now it’s a medium which gives itself to you. The dots of paint huddle like beetles on the parallel palette. It was originally invented for oil paints, but it works just as well for this.
I wet my paintbrush and start to paint.
It feels like letting go.
The image manifests like a phantom that has taken over me. God, I love painting dark skin, the depth and nuance of it. The way light is absorbed, the way it bounces off.
A face takes shape. The thick lips and wide nose and his sharp, wide cheekbones. I don’t realise I’ve memorised the tattoos on his forearms until they spring from my fingers to take shape amidst the brown of this skin.
His eyes—his bottomless, effervescent eyes—are just a sliver looking at you, lids almost closed in pleasure. You can see how the expression crinkles the edges of his eyes, drawing his thick brows down.
If you look lower, you can see why. A fig, split open to reveal the pink and seeds within. The fruit presses against his bottom lip as if he wants to deny himself the taste for a moment, just so he can enjoy it fully a moment later.
The fig, although its colours are true to its physical form, seems to be glowing if you look at his face. Pink, reds, the lights glow from his dark skin, making him look alive and enchanted and sweet to the tongue if you were to run it against his cheek.
I step back from it when it’s finished. It’s been hours, my distant body tells me, but I’ve been transported through time, slipping seamlessly through its liquid pipe. I stare at the painting.
Sebastián. He’s looking at me with an expression I’ve only seen in dreams.
Sebastián, with the scent and the taste of fig against his lips, surrounded by the summer heat.