F5: Inspiration and Desperation

Bending down to my case I took out a sanding pad and gently began to take away the texture from my canvas. All those sad crooked lines, and that pitiful attempt at wood grain. When the last of it was gone I thinned some Midnight Black, took a large brush and with criss-cross strokes made my table go away.

Looking up at my lovely Ms. Polly Ann I felt my lips quirk a little at the image of her that came to mind. That gorgeous body, laid upon piles of silk pillows, in a bed large enough to swim in. I let my eyes roam across her, her body so tight, her hair a blond fountain behind her head, it would drape across satin pillow cases.

My eyes went to the table next to the bed.

No common nightstand, far more decorative. Fitting, in this bedroom. Round topped of course, no hard corners in here please. Long legs delicate, but sturdy, curved and flared out in places, tight in other. The soft hint of old polish going yellow with age, that slight dusting of neglect. The drawer pull, a lion's head of fake bronze, the ring in his mouth like a door knocker.

The tips of the table's legs were the same tarnished bronze. Too many years being brushed with a wet mop when the hardwood floors were cleaned. They had a green patina of tarnish.

The soft lines of the table, the dark wood, Burnt Sienna with a mixture of the Midnight black from underneath and the Indian Yellow I highlighted it with. The back of the table was in shadow. There should have been a lamp upon it I think, but no... That wasn't on the card.

The Knife or the Book?

Book first, I think. What would it be? A romance novel no doubt, some potboiler paperback with Fabio on the cover. The cheap cover creased across his flowing hair, his pirate's shirt torn from his body flying in the wind of whatever sea he was sailing on. The maiden in his arms, no... not a maiden a rescued slave. I smiled as I pictured naughty Cynthia in tattered rags and broken chains, her face smudged with dirt, her eyes wide with innocent lust as she looked at her rescuer.

Why a knife? What is it doing there? What was it to be used for?

Then I saw the torn letter upon the floor, the discarded envelop, the carefully sliced opened top. I looked back to the knife and before my mind's eyes it became a long bladed letter opener, with a curl of paper left to hang from the hilt.

Why was the letter on the floor? Who was it from? These thoughts filled me as I looked back to the nearly nude image of Polly Ann. Her in all her pale glory laid as if upon a serving table. Prepared for the feast to come. Why? Why was she like that? Did the letter have something to do with her being there?

It was from a lover. Of course! My eyes went to the handkerchief. She had been crying. I darken one corner to show that it was still wet from tears. Why? What made her cry? Did he leave her?

I chuckled at that. What fool would leave something that lovely? Surely not me. Then why?

Her lover must be dead. But then who was she waiting for, dressed like that? I couldn't picture that. Not unless...

No. He can't be dead. The fool left her. He left her and now she was waiting for her new lover to come to take her. She had been reading her book to get herself in the mood for this new man, this new lover.

"Very, impressive."

Blinking, I turned startled to see Ms. Young standing next to me. She tilted her head looking at my image. I looked back and to my horror saw that I had painted the full bedroom scene. With a incredibly recognizable woman upon the bed. The image was nearly as perfect as my mind had made it. The only saving grace was that the delicate blond on the bed had her face turned away.

"Did you take some sort of speed painting class last night?" she asked me, with a bit of laughter, "Or have you been hiding talent from me?"

"No. I just finally figured out how to take a step, that I have been needing to take. It kind of... all fell into place after that." I looked at the painting wondering if I could improve on it but decide to let it stand as it was.

"Well, I'm glad you took that step, what ever it was. That is a vast improvement." She gave my back a pat, then went to walk away.

"Ms. Young."

"Yes?" She turned to look at me but her eyes went past my shoulder to my painting.

"Thank you."

"Oh no, you're quite welcome. It is its own reward for a teacher when they see a student finally get it. I'm just glad you did." With a smile, she nodded and walked over to take a look at another students finished work.

As I was gathering my things together I looked up to see Cynthia standing there looking over my painting. Her hand was full of her brushes. Her eyes roamed the canvas, even as I saw small twitches quirk her lips, She knew who the lady in on the bed was.

"Nice, but I have a question." She looked at me with her head titled, her beaded braids resting on her shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"You going to ask her out now?" She asked, softly. She glanced up to where Ms. Young was offering polite criticism to Gary Wells.

"No." I put the last thing back in my art case and closed it up. "But, would you like to go get a beer?"

She laughed and looked back at my painting. I saw her face shift and realized where she was looking. The cover of the romance novel. I saw her mouth purse up, then it shifted to a smile, even as she started to chuckle.

"Would love a beer. But don't get any ideas about afterwords." She looked back at me, her mouth quirked.

"No?"

"Nope." She turned to go clean her brushes, "I'm a lesbian."

Chuckling, I grinned as I watched her sashaying ass. Suddenly, I had no problem picturing Cynthia in far less than a bra and panties. I could easily imagine her dark skin in tones of Coffee Brown, Butterscotch Tan, When she looked back at me I caught a curve of her breast and knew I was going to need Midnight Black for her nipples. She gave me a smile, and pointed to her painting.

"Tell me what you think." She winked.

As I stepped around her easel, my jaw dropped. Oh my god... she didn't.