These last couple of hours always seemed the longest. She smiled to herself thinking how clichéd she sounded even to her own ears. Well, there was work still left to be done, dinner to be prepared, next morning’s clothes to be ironed, presentation for next morning’s meeting to be completed… the sound of the front door opening brought her back to reality. She stood there, paring knife in hand, and looked at him while he put away the groceries in the fridge. It’s not like time had done him any special favours; he had put on weight and the tan that had once given her hot flushes was now darker and her everyday reality.
She loved him still, the passion and intensity still the same, she always wondered why people said that passion and love cooled, turned tame with time. Sex was not like a surprise shower in winter, it still overtook them regularly like the tide, albeit it was not like the initial days when just an accidental brush of hands or shoulders turned into a mad rush for a room, sometimes the nearest table. Nowadays it was leisurely, deliberate, and full of memories and shared moments — in a word, more precious.
She realised she was wool-gathering while he stood looking at her face, asking a silent question or searching for an answer perhaps. She smiled and shook her head and he kissed her neck to make squeal. They ate their dinner while they watched the city, glittering in the rain-wet night from their balcony, talking about their day, feet tangling, strains of jazz wafting in from the living room. Like every other day he insisted on doing the dishes, knowing that she hated it and would do them all over again once he was out of the kitchen.
Chores done, presentation completed, she climbed into bed beside him, she knew he was asleep, but that could always be remedied. A torrid hour or so later, she knew from his breathing that he was asleep again. She lay staring at the ceiling, illuminated by the light from the television they hadn’t remembered to turn off; she twisted slightly enjoying the weight of his hand across her stomach for a while.
Her wait was almost over, when she was sure she wouldn’t wake him up, she slipped out of bed. She slipped the ratty t-shirt over her still warm skin and stepped of their room into the small balcony that faced the sparse studio in the apartment next door. She settled herself down on the wide chair, the wind cooling her heated skin, and waited. The darkness of the night and her solitude were broken when the light in the studio came on. She settled down, made herself comfortable and sat there with a hitched breath, cooling skin, bathed in pale yellow light while he set up his canvas, parted the drapes, glanced back to check if she was there and started dabbing colour on the canvas.
She waited all day, every day, for these couple of hours; she never spoke about it, didn’t really want to share this with anyone else. She liked how he used only bold and dark colours unaware that those colours represented her aura to him. He liked spending time in his darkened studio, watching her walk in and out during the day, stealing glances towards his apartment, unaware of his gaze. He liked the way the spiky ends of her short hair brushed her neck and the way the thin silver chain hugged her collar bone, he wondered if she wore any perfume.
She had been watching him for over a month now and during that time he had produced more paintings than ever before. He needed to paint just so that she could watch him, not steal glances towards his apartment but actually watch him; he needed to know she was on that couch despite the rain, despite the chill in the air, despite the man sleeping on her bed. She watched and he painted, he aware of her gaze on his back and his bold strokes and she aware of his awareness, while in the bedroom lit by the television screen, he waited for her to come back to bed.
olgatheostrich 