Nude Woman in Charcaol on Canvas

He likes the way the charcoal sounds against the paper.
He likes when the chalky dust filters up his nose,
when his hand accidentally smudges the edge.

Outside
the street is lined with tall terraces and
balconies like black embroidery.
Coloured shelters over cafés and
restaurants below.
Nutella crepes
feta pesto strawberries banana
crunchy snow
street artists
smudging charcoal and dabbling oil.

The metro smells of urine
with the acoustics of an accordion busking
La Vie en Rose.
There are
rows of trees without leaves
standing haughtily,
their silhouettes
framing beautiful women
teeming the pebbled pathways in boots and fur
gloves and berets.

Inside the studio
it is toasty and dry.
There is
condensation on the windows
like frosted teardrops.
A thousand terracotta chimneys
dotted along rooftops,
and the red sun the last glow of warmth against the winter night.

While she poses she feels her skin crackle under the fire,
feels the orange glow of the spotlight on her limbs.
The sensation of the light and heat upon her
makes her dizzy.
The sensation of a dozen pairs of eyes upon her.

Through the window she hears
murmurs of soft French words
gold leaf and stained glass and
birds overhead.
Dusk
sculptures
steeples
winding roads.

In the breaks she gathers her sarong, flicks a strand of magenta behind her ear, and

left clavicle tilted,
weight on the palm of her hand,
line of the floor, dark,
angle, soft,
proportion, heavy,
curves, full.

As his eyes trace her she becomes aware of every muscle, each bone, each organ, in their dormant and active states of being. She feels them flex and contract and loosen and numb and detach from her body.

She sees herself from the ceiling, from the floor, from each easel that rotates around her.

She sees herself in statue, in portrait, in oil, in ink, in charcoal, in pastel, in watercolour.

She sees herself with wings, with womb, with colour, with grey, with life, without it.

She sees herself through eyes that reflect a thousand different kinds of pain, of love, of ecstasy, of sorrow, of living.

The shadows from the spotlight fall around her like music, and she lets herself submerge in it like a sweet perfume or liquid drug.

He undresses her and caresses her with his eyes.

Skin like Belgium chocolate
Ribs like a xylophone

A dozen ideas making sense of the world
A thousand sensations of simultaneous combustion

He watches
the lines and shadows of her figure
her hips and her pelvic bone.

He watches her
watching him
watching her.
Red auburn fire.

Outside the wind howls.

But in the studio

she is

flakes of snow and naked hips
bare trees and ripe womb
biting wind and soft nipples.

Nude Woman in Charcoal on Canvas.