Enough Commas for Lawrence

"Oh, that's fucking hot," she said, pointing to the monitor. In the photo she was on her knees and elbows, with him behind her, his hands on her hips as he thrust. Her face was thrown back and beautiful in her orgasm. They were kneeling on the white wedding dress. "But it's a little on the nose. That next one is my favorite."

The picture was the climax, as it were, of the shoot. She was on her back, her hands holding her large tits around his cock, and his cum was wrapped around her throat like a rosary.

He worked at the computer, saving photos to different drives. Some he needed to edit and color balance, primarily the wedding dress photos, which she really did want to keep. He also burned off copies for her. "I will edit these and get you the finals for approval," he said, which was a boilerplate for him, like it was any other portrait sitting. He had never done a sex shoot, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. But he was resigned to playing out his role.

"And I will transfer the payment when I get home."

"No," he said, his voice sharp. "No. I'm not getting paid for this."

"Shit," she said, apologetically. "That was stupid. I didn't think how it sounded. I'm so sorry!" She sounded genuinely crushed.

He leaned over and kissed her warmly. "Sorry to snap, he said gently. "It's fine. Donate the fee if you'd like, but I am not taking any money."

She nodded, then stood. The moon was shining through the skylight, bathing her as she reached up and slid off the robe. She was limned in the moonlight -- her breasts, her hairless mons, her strong legs. "Then let me thank you myself. No cameras. No complications." She turned, and he watched as her shapely ass disappeared into his bedroom.

He stood and followed.

They found them like that the next day, cuddled in his bed. Her family's security guys broke in the door, forced her into a robe, and bundled her out, giving him several punches in the ribs as a goodbye gift. Later that day, a flunky came by to pay for the damages. Bronwyn sent an apology note -- this wasn't how she had it planned. The wedding was called off before the moon rose again. Bronwyn, in "disgrace from her family," fled to Milan. Thomas and Kelly were quietly wed before the new year. And Eric was official branded a seducing son of a bitch and persona non grata among polite company. Everyone was happy.

More or less.

***

Eric told her the whole story, in broad strokes and without lascivious details.

"So," Ada said, "you did it all for love. A noble demon." He couldn't determine her feelings from her words or tone.

He laughed, bitter as bile. "Absolutely not. I chose to have sex with a beautiful woman. I broke up a wedding a year in the planning. Nothing noble in that."

"So why tell me?"

The sudden realization of why he told her rose in his mind, towered over him, and fell upon him. He was suddenly cold, shaking, at what he was going to lose. "It doesn't really change anything, but I wanted to tell you."

"That you are a good man?"

"That I am not a good man," he said, firmly. Standing was the hardest thing he had done. "I'm not a hero, not like I was when we're kids. I'm not, and you need to see that. You need to know." His stomach was in ropes, and his tongue thick. "I'm sorry, for all of it." And her turned and walked away.

"Eric! Eric!" But she didn't follow.

Eric sat in Darlene Golde's gallery. She was a close friend, and had given him his first break years ago. She had called and asked him to stop by with anything he was working on.

"Fucking Donald Pall," she said. "Goes on a bender and takes off, owing me a show."

Darlene was statuesque still at sixty, and there was no gray in her short, black hair. A deeply loved and respected pillar of the art world, she was a sophisticate who also smoked like a chimney and cursed like a sailor.

"I gave him his fucking break and the mother fucker leaves the country." She turned back to Eric. "I'm sorry, love, I'm just so pissed. So I have an empty gallery on fucking Valentine's Day because Claude cannot extend his showing due to his contracts. Fuck!"

She took a breath, and composed herself. "Sorry. Again. So, I am looking to throw together an ad hoc show. Just a bunch of good artists. You are my first ask. Do you have anything, anything at all, you can give me?"

He handed her a jump drive with this work with Adalyn. "This is what I am working on right now. If there is anything you want, it's yours."

She plugged it into her laptop and opened the one directory on the drive. "Street work. Nice. A change of pace."

"Thanks," he said as he poured another coffee. Darlene made the best coffee he had tried, outside of Seattle.

She was working her keyboard, making little noises. "Oh, fuck this," she said, removing the drive. "Come into the office." Her office had a larger desktop computer, and multiple monitors, two of which were massive. She sat, and his photos appeared on screens as she pulled them up.

Eric was self-conscious about looking at his own work with other people, so he was looking at flyers for past showings. Also, he didn't want to confront what he felt when he saw Adalyn's face in the crowds.

"Fuck me," she said, and he turned.

"Anything usable?"

She looked back at him incredulously, her blue eyes fever bright. "Eric, these aren't good," she said. His stomach dropped out, and he turned back to his coffee so she wouldn't see.

"They are fucking genius."

He turned back and stammered. "Um, what I was going for was..."

"No," she interrupted. "I see it. Here. Here. Here, here, here. She is in every picture. But not the center. God, this is fantastic! Look at how she pulls attention, even in this mass. Different days, yes? A fucking lodestone."

"Yeah," and he was still in shock. "Over a few weeks."

She shook her head again. "Tammi," she yelled out."

Tammi, her young assistant, stuck her head in. "Hm?"

Darlene didn't look up. "Get me the standard contract pulled up for Eric here. Eric Schuts," she said, spelling it out. She looked back at Eric. "Oh, sorry, I'm taking all of it. You get the whole damn gallery." She looked at the files. "And we are keeping the name."

The following week flew. The preparations for the show were intense and rushed, but it took his mind from everything else. Adalyn -- he found he thought of her as Adalyn rather than Ada now -- called a couple of times, but hadn't left a message. He knew that Darlene had contacted her to get a release, and that she had sent it back without comment. Which he took as comment enough.

Tonight was the opening of the show. He paced his loft. He knew he should be there, at least make an appearance, but he couldn't. His tuxedo hung by the door, ignored.

He had tried editing, and it went nowhere. He had exercised, but it did nothing for the energy that was crawling over him. Showering usually helped, but it did nothing. He had cut down his drinking so much that he didn't want to start again. Yet. He would, this he knew, but not tonight. So he was just pacing.

There was a pounding at the loft door, and déjà vu punched him in the face.

She stood, framed in the doorway. A long, elegant dress of midnight blue beautiful hugged her slim curves. She had her hair up, held by a pair of black chopsticks he had gifted her with after she finally mastered how to use them. A fringed purple wrap draped her shoulders elegantly. In one hand, she held her strappy, high-heeled shoes, taken off for the climb up the stairs. And in the other was the program. "Enough Commas for Lawrence: Life in Photographs, by Eric Schuts"

She was heartstoppingly beautiful, and he couldn't find words. He just stepped back, letting her in.

"What, no flirty quip," she said softly. "I expected more."

"Well, expecting more from me is a mistake," he said.

"I went to the show," she said, trying a different tack. "They missed you there. Eric, it was... I can't even put words to it. What you did, those pictures? I... It was perfect." She walked over to him, to embrace him, but he moved back.

"I'm glad you liked it. You should probably go." His voice broke at the last.

"Eric! What is happening? Things were going so well. Why are you doing this?"

He turned, and the tears fell. "Why? Why?" He sat, more collapsed, into a chair. His voice was quieter. "Remember when I got all self-righteous about being called a seducer? What I said?"

"That you don't lie, and you don't lead anyone on."

"Exactly," he said. "And I promised you I wasn't seducing you."

"And you haven't," she said, slowly.

"Haven't I?" He stood and turned away, to the window. "What do you call this? You act like I am a good person, that I have worth beyond...what, a camera? Even there? Fuck, even I am starting to believe it."

He knew he was changing, not for her, but because of her. But it didn't change who he was at his core.

"I told you the story, about Bronwyn. The only thing I am really go at is wrecking things. And I don't want to wreck you." He looked at her again. "You are an astonishing woman, Adalyn. Incredible. You are brave, and strong, and smart. You need someone who isn't going to fuck up your life."

She stepped over to him, close enough to touch. "Eric," she began.

"Look at me! Am I a thing that worth redeeming? Am I just doing this to feel better, as if I can?" His voice dripped anguish. "I am just using you to feel like a real person again. I'm weak, I've always been weak."

Adalyn reached out and took his face in her hands. "Eric, look at me. Look at me!"

He stopped, still.

"Say the words."

He just looked at her.

"Say it, Eric. Say the words. Forget the past for right now. Forget what you want, or what you think I need. Say what you really feel. Say it."

He closed his eyes.

"I love you," he whispered.

Her resolve broke, and she crushed herself to him. "You do not need redemption, Eric," she whispered in his ear. Her tears were falling on his shoulder. "You are already redeemed."

She pulled his head back and whispered to his lips, "I love you too."

And there were enough stars, at last.

********************

Author's note: I did not plan to write this. I hate Valentine's Day. I think it is run by a syndicate of Hershey's, Hallmark, The De Beers group, and FTD, and that romance is an every day thing that Valentine's Day excuses.

But the title came to me from an odd place, and stuck in my mind. The story is inspired by the original classic, "Eros and Psyche," by Platonicus. Eros, or Cupid, was really an asshole before he met Psyche, and was known to seduce women on their wedding days. Psyche was almost foolhardy in accepting challenges, and her courage redeemed a god. Originally, I had more of Platonicus's story, which has Venus, Cupid's mother, angry at Psyche and wanting to destroy her, but adapting that was way more Les Liaisons Dangereuses, and that had been done.

I hope I did some level of justice. Happy Valentine's Day, and do something romantic every day. Fuck the syndicate!