Page 38 of Invasive Species
“I want something to read,” I blurt.
She blinks at me. “In exchange for the pizza oven? I guess. Sure.”
Her eyes dim a little; I've disappointed her. I replay the conversation in my head, cursing my clumsy tongue.
“No, not in exchange. We can try eating movies and pizza ovens. I was thinking of something else.” I swallow hard, averting my eyes from her soft lips. Lips which are purely functional like mine for eating, drinking and talking, and yet they beg for my attention, for me to dosomethingwith them.
She brightens like the sun rising on this cold world. “Oh, that's fine, I do that all the time, if you hadn't noticed.”
She rubs her hands together and I wrap mine around them without thinking about it, heating my palms to protect her from the chill. “You’re too cold. Go inside, warm up.”
Her eyes widen, her fingers stilling in my grasp. She leans in toward me, just a touch, arcing toward the warmth. “That’s nice. Thank you.”
My scales flash turquoise green with pure joy.
She beams. “I'll lend you my e-reader. I should be working on my art anyway, and this will be one less distraction.”
“I’m pleased to help in some small way.” Oh, All Mother, how her smile in return wraps around my hearts like a net, snagging me as surely as a trap.
Whatever’s happening to me, I can’t tell whether it's my genetics, whether I want her for my own sake, or if there’s a difference.
THIRTEEN
ARABELLA
I quickly sanitize the e-book,wiping all traces of Pirates and Planets and Princes from the device, but I leave myself logged in so he can download what he wants. He deserves something nice to look forward to, all he does is work and swim, so I’m kicking myself for not thinking of this before.
I hurry outside and hand it to him. Gara is smart and has way more advanced technology, so he gets it immediately. He cradles the thin flat e-reader like it's the crown jewels, but it's the look on his face that makes my breath come short.
His eyes shine, as if I'm the best person in the world for lending him my battered-to-shit e-reader with a cracked screen. Has no one ever given him a present before?
Well, I can change that.
With that thought, crisp clarity folds over me like a comforting favorite blanket. Holy shit, my muse is back again.
Making something for Gara fires me up so much I run inside. I have to go with it, and I sprint to the mini studio without even getting out of my wetsuit or showering, becausenow the blank canvas is an exciting invitation instead of an accusation.
Daffodil yellow and March-sky blue are calling to me, so I squeeze them out onto a fresh pallet. My fingers shake as I swirl them together, the paint sliding between my fingers, sloppy and cold but warming as I pour my idea into the shade. Gara’s scales are more often than not some shade of green, whether subdued bottle green and the green of wet moss, or a bright lime with undertones of sunlit spring grass.
Mixing up several shades, I select the darker one as a base and spread it on the canvas with my fingers. I've never painted without a brush before. It feels primal, carnal. Perfect. I outline his strong jaw, always tight as if he stops himself from saying everything that's on his mind. Is that because he's hiding who he is and what he thinks?
Maybe he’s a bit like me, masking his thoughts and how they bounce around in a way no one would ever understand.
His regal nose, his furrowed brow, the look of consternation when I've come to him with another idea blooms to life on the canvas. He doesn't like change. Or, is it the fact I'm taking away control that riles him up?
I dip my fingers in the paint, spread them wide, and caress his neck and shoulders into being. Paint builds those hard muscles of physical perfection as if I can coax the flat canvas into becoming 3D, letting me stroke the hard lines of his biceps, triceps and the muscles of his shoulder. I wish I had impasto gel, that stuff thickens paint to make it three dimensional, but I can’t stop so I’ll work with what I have. I massage his biceps and the crest of his chest before I drop off the bottom of the canvas. There he is, glowering at me from the smears of darkness, like his shadow come to life.
I don't clean my hands, plunging them straight into the lighter greens. These highlight one side of his face, the sneer turned into a softer smile, the way he'd smiled at me thismorning. A welcoming smile. I pick out the glints in his eyes, the sparkle of challenge and mystery. I linger over his lips, quick to banter back sometimes and pressed closed on other occasions. He's slowly starting to open up, but slowly is the operative word.
The sharp, coarse smell of paint surrounds me as I move in close. Gara’s scent is fresh, even when drenched with exertion from working in the barn, as if his sweat just makes him more delicious rather than off-putting. His lips I pay special attention to, each splash of lighter color making them more and more real. I haven't poured myself into a painting like this in so long, felt this energy coursing through me.
It's like his hand wrapped around mine. The shock of his touch followed by warmth. Care. Understanding. Listening to me and helping rather than doing it for me.
His fingers are hard to do, so big and powerful and yet so tender. He cupped his hands around mine instinctively to heat me up. I draw each finger tantalizingly close, as if he's a mere hand’s span away and beckoning me from the picture.
Finally, I stand back to see my work. The whole is better than each sum, and my eyes blur with tears.
It's perfect. He's glorious.
