She could cast a glance like a stone, sometimes, and those eyes would pierce your heart with much more deadly a force than a mere pebble could inflict. Her name was unknown to me, but her eyes were a thing I saw day after day after day in the coffee shop where I ate a small cake and drank a cup of tea every morning. God, those eyes. It was as if she wanted you to see only so much of her soul as was necessary to seduce you, and seduce me she did. I had never honestly met her, but if she were in danger, I would have jumped in front of any skin-rending, vein-shattering, organ-tearing bullet that was sent her way. I think she knew it, too.
As beautiful as her eyes were, I had to say that she was also fairly unsettling. Anyone with such power should be able to be trusted with such power, but oh, I knew she would not be. Could not be. I watched her over my crossword puzzle that morning as I finished my small cake, bitter thing and left out too long, when I saw her glance over. My stale cake now meant nothing, no, less than nothing to my renewed hunger. Hunger for what I could not say, but her exotic and beautifully tan skin forced my eyes to caress it, and her own eyes seemed to be a gun pointing to my head as I, her hostage, slowly sleepwalked to her table. I watched things occur as she looked up, her eyes even more piercing and seductive up close.
"Hello," her voice was deep, a soothing alto with a hint of cigarettes and too much liqueur in her developmental years. Her lips were full and her smile natural as she looked up, knowing me immediately. "What's your name?" I found no words, and merely looked at her, dumbfounded. Her laugh awoke me.
"My... name? Oh, my name!" I slapped my forehead, realizing how very unnatural it was to forget one's name, and how very embarrasing. "My name is Andi," I said, extending my well-manicured hand. "Andi Robbins. Yours?" I said cordially, leaving my hand in hers as we shook. She looked so sincere, as though we had met millions of times before, and she knew everything about me already. It looked like it was a game in which she tried to test my ability to lie, her eyes sparkled so.
"My name is Renée Lucient, but you may call me Rennie," she said, letting her soft, babydoll fingertips linger in the palm of my hand. I could hear that she was from France, and it added all the more mystery to her in my soul. "Please, sit. I believe we have much about which to speak, Andi Robbins." She pulled her hand from mine and gestured to the empty chair at her table. As I sat, she leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table and resting her head in her hands, such an American gesture. "So," she said, "how are you today, Andi?"
I looked at her, perplexed. "How am I? I... suppose I'm quite well. How are you, Rennie?" I asked, rolling the nickname on my tongue to see how it tasted.
"I'm very well today, for, you see, I am hoping to have my portrait painted," Her eyes looked half-closed and her long, dark hair tumbled over her shoulders like a bedsheet crumpling on the floor. "You are a painter, are you not?" I nodded. "Well, Andi, I would like to ask if you would be pleased to paint my portrait. Andi," she began, feeling out her words, "would you like to paint my final portrait?" I looked at her in amazement.
"How many portraits have you had painted?"
"Not one, until now, but I painted one myself a long time ago, Andi, however, I prefer not to bring up the past." Her eyes lured me into them, and I found myself agreeing mindlessly as I handed her a card to my studio. "Of course, this will have to be painted nonstop or else it will not work, so I must have you there starting this evening at 5, and I hope that you will agree, yes?" I nodded, not questioning her as we sat there."I will see you at 5, then." I walked out of the coffee place and to the mediocre waitressing job I had at this dingy little cafe a few storefronts down.
By 5 o' clock, I was in my studio with my paints ready, extra ones beside so that I had new paint if I ran out. By 5:03, she had entered my studio in a beautifully scooped cream dress and her lips were redder than the red paint I had. I would find the color, though, and it would be beautiful. I had chosen a canvas that would recreate her in true-to-life size, a six feet by three feet piece of manmade miracle. She lay on the satin seat and held a pose, unmoving, as though she were a statue, and I began to paint, no words having been exchanged.
Two days later, the finished piece stood there in front of both of us, looking more real than the woman sitting on my couch. Seeing the painting, she stood and glided over to me, her arms open with the love of many passionless years. As she held me in front of her painting, I felt her warm hands and painted lips wander over the little amount of skin exposed by my loose painting shirt and pants. My easel fell to the floor and I turned to face her. In her face, I saw some predatory lust beginning to take her over, and seeing this animal side of her could not stop myself. I do not remember what happened after I saw her face.
I woke up, though, presumably the next day, with the portrait still there and she gone, my Renée disappeared into the night. I could not fight the existential feeling of loss and grievance at this. Then, I saw it. In the painting, I saw the flicker of life. I realized that this could not be so - I could not have taken Renée into the painting merely by painting her, could I? No, it wasn't possible. I saw it again. That flicker, that small twinkle. It was her soul, her spirit, caught in my painting, as she had planned. Her loving smile was more brightly lit and the colors more saturated than when I had finished the painting first, and her eyes lit up more than a chandelier.
I have yet to find the perfect artist to paint my final portrait, though I realize that I will not cease until I do. I suppose I shall someday, but for now, I believe I will grow used to this life without true death. |
Submission Name: painter - ws 8.15.2006
