Page 3 of A Virgo's Muse
I closed my eyes, and there he was. Onyx. He looked at me like he already knew something I hadn’t figured out yet… like I’d already started painting him in my mind and didn’t realize it.
And that voice…
I grabbed my sketchbook from the nightstand. It’d been untouched for months, but my fingers opened it like they never forgot. I pressed the pencil to the page. With one line, one shape, I sketched the curve of a jaw, a shadowed brow, and heavy shoulders. I didn’t think. I felt, whole, alive… inspired.
By the time I blinked, there was a faint outline of a man in smoke and steel staring back at me.
I slammed the book shut. Sleep still didn’t come, but at least I felt something again.
I don’t know when I drifted off to sleep, but here it was morning, and my room reeked of something burnt. Jumping up, I realized it was the coffee and lavender candle I forgot to blow out. I was officially fully awake before my alarm started blaring. Gettingout of the bed, my muscles were stiff, but I was still alive. I pulled my curls into a puff as I began to walk to my bathroom down the hall. I did my daily hygiene routine, then I turned on the shower. I allowed it to heat up before stepping in and washing away all of my sleepiness away. I washed my body twice before getting out.
I dried my body off then applied lotion. Walking back into my room, I went straight to my closet.
I wanted to be comfy today, so I put my oversizedMy Desires Studiotee on and my black biker shorts that had paint splatters all over them. I went to my vanity mirror in the corner to fix my hair.
I used my brush to smooth down all of my flyaways. I pulled all of my hair to the back and put it in a loose ponytail before I added my paintbrush claw clip. I swiped on some clear gloss before making my way over to my beat-up Converses. I gathered my bag and keys and was on my way to my studio.
Walking into the studio, it smelled like turpentine and sage. I looked up at my clock that was mounted on the wall. The time read 8:45 a.m. I exhaled quietly before busying myself around the studio preparing the blank canvases, paint, paint brushes, and water to clean the brushes when they got too dirty.
Within no time, the kids began trickling in around 9:30 a.m., bright-eyed and loud, dragging their parents behind them. I smiled through it. I loved this part—teaching. Watching them discover color and shapes and the freedom of expression. They didn’t know about rules yet. They just created.
I guided them through an abstract self-portrait activity.
“You don’t have to draw your face the way it looks,” I told them. “Draw it the way it feels.”
One little girl painted herself in swirls of deep purple and gold. A boy in the back splattered red all over his canvas and said, “This is how mad I feel when my mom says no.”
They’re honest, raw, brave. I envy them.
Time flew by, and it was soon 6:00 p.m. The last kid left with paint smudged on his cheeks and a rolled-up canvas tucked under his arm. I locked the door, pulled the blinds halfway, and started cleaning up.
There was something peaceful about this part, washing brushes, scrubbing dried acrylic off tables, putting the room back together. It was the closest I’d come to calm in weeks.
Old school R&B floated through the speakers. The singer’s voice poured out soft and aching, wrapping around me like a memory. I swayed a little while wiping the paint-splattered floor, singing under my breath.
“Un-break my heart…”
I didn’t even hear the door open. Didn’t hear the alarm chime. My back was to it. I was rinsing out a cup of murky water when the hairs on my neck began to rise, like something just shifted in the air… heavy… electric.
I turned slowly. There he was, standing in the far corner of the studio, leaning in the shadows between the canvas racks and the exposed brick wall.
Onyx.Same black on black. This time, a hoodie. No jewelry. No smile. Just that same unnerving calm, like he was carved from silence and ash.
I didn’t move. My breath was caught in my chest.
“How did you get in?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Door was open.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You sure?”
His voice was low, like a secret I wasn’t supposed to hear twice. I narrowed my eyes. I should’ve been asking more questions. Hell, I should’ve probably called someone, but I don’t know. I just watched him and the way he studied the room, my art… me.
He stepped forward slow and quiet, like a question he already knew the answer to.
“You ever paint that canvas?” he asked, eyes flicking to the one I abandoned yesterday.
