She stood there buxom, sharp and voluptuous, and twirled around in the morning sunlight, like sunshine was flashing through her pearly skin. Fiona. A muse. A lover. A woman in love.
Yes, Fiona was the reason his paint brush hadn't stopped working. The reason he couldn't stop his fratboy activities, the lispy hues contrived, his face upturned to the sky. There was something momentous about this woman he was painting - smooth-skinned, red-lipped, apple-cheeked she was, and his whole body ached to just grab her by the waist and pin her down on his sofa. But he restrained himself. Fiona was not to be messed with. First the painting, then he knew, the rest would follow automatically, flow smoothly, desires converging like currents meeting in a river, swishing and buckling and drowning all resistance.
Fiona leaned against the morning light, her beauty was brandished like a fierce Dickensian heroine who moves with grace and all her glory was etched through the light which emanated from her face like the light from a desire which had taken control over her. She was supple and delicate, and he had never loved her more. He was in love with her, in the moment, in the moments when she was just skin and bones, just harmoniously his angelic force, no pretence, no makeup, just his. She looked at him with that light in her eyes which made reality fade into oblivion. This, then, was love - not just the love he knew which existed in storybooks and fairytales, but the love which was actively practised through his paintbrush, day after day, riveting new meanings forming along the edge of his consciousness. The word took on new meanings as her body leaned against the sofa where she was perched. The painting didn't take long to make!
Later, Fiona and he were translucently decked in the morning sunshine, after the swim in the sea, which had claimed their energy. They had breakfast, gazing at each other over the innumerable Wikipedia-style monologues about the music playing from men in their twenties trying to render their business attire invisible with cultural know-how. The sea had been their best friend, the sea-horses particularly riveting and glossy. The water was all milky silver, the sun rising in the sky through a pale haze. Exposed to the true light of morning ,sun-starved and wibbly, they took a hot shower afterwards , they could still feel their blood swaying, rising and falling with those waves.
Fiona's favourite chair was the comfy orange chair where she gazed out at gently lapping turquoise waters,ignoring the noisy tourist group taking up the entire terrace who didn't want to leave. Her view of her man was perfect. He was dressed in a crumpled shirt and shorts, and his eyes were painted in hues of red and pearly blue. It was then she knew, he was thinking of someone else. But she also knew, he was attached to her in his own way. His own strength-mixed-with vulnerability way. The opulent boutiques, the chic oceanfront mansions, the provocative blend of cigarette smoke and coffee, was disturbing and beautiful.
They were two lone marauders, lost in the twisted maze of lust, yet longing to give themselves another name. They were artist and muse. They were lovers of hues, they were the reason the sea was swinging to its own beat, and nature flashing through the lives of people with a tormening pain. The canvas kept filling up and they kept diving in.
Art won, love lost.