Page 39 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
If I hadn’t concentrated on painting, I would have felt my heart combust at the sight of her. She looks absolutely adorable while standing on the small ladder that I had bought, along with the rest of the furniture. After eleven hours, she had laid the pink color on the background, weaved in some yellow, orange and light blue, dusting the brush against her fingers, painting her skin white but giving some stars and speckles to the Cuban skies.
We stop when the nightly eleven strikes the clock. In fact, I had tried to help her cook dinner for Benicio after he’d made us that exquisite bean soup for lunch. She had laughed at my cutting technique and said that the vegetables were a little too big for the shredded meat she was planning on making, but left them as such just because it was me.
How odd. The comfort, tranquility and sweetness that follows everything she does and makes me feel.
Consequently, we don’t progress as much as we’d hoped before sleep begins to claim us. My painting of Benicio is incomplete, his legs remaining unfinished because my meticulous nature insists on including his distinct leg hairs—a quirk of realism. Veronica still needs to complete her portion of the sky she started, with only the pink and yellow layers left to dry.
But she says exactly what I’m feeling.
“My ass hurts.” She adds, earning a laugh from me when she rubs at the sore skin. “That’s it for saying I think it’s time we leave this here. I have to head back home and I don’t like late-night-driving.”
When I stand up, every joint in my body cracks along with my bones. A sigh leaves my lips, extending my back along the way. “I could be of help for that pain.”
That brings a smile up her face, getting closer to me and standing on the tip of her toes to press a chaste kiss to my lips. “You wish I’d let you massage my ass.”
“There’s no joke or punchline behind that. I do, totally.” While explaining, I gently twist a strand of her hair around my finger, keeping to myself the fact that I might have inadvertently transferred some beige paint onto it. I then simply drop my hand and offer a smile. “Also, you’re aware I’m not letting you drive back home at this hour of the night when I have a perfectly made-up bed waiting for the two of us?”
“I thought Opal shared a bed with you.”
Renna would laugh at me if she realized that I now have a cat as a roommate. I was never one for pets, for they were too much of a responsibility for someone like me that was never home, but I’m comfortable with some company. “We can kick her out of the bed. I’m sure she’ll understand and take the couch tonight.”
Veronica scoffs. “I should be the one taking the couch, then.”
I roll my eyes at her antics. “Come on. You can go take a shower and I’ll prepare some clothes for you. Just...stay with me for the night, if you wanna?”
Veronica ponders on the idea a bit, speckles of paint glistening over her body, dried and perhaps, a mess to take off in the shower. However, she slides a hand right through my locks, nodding at my words and putting the paint down.
“Let me help you clean up around here and I’ll take a shower.”
I might be losing it, because I’m acutely aware that my time in Havana is finite, but I still surrender to the emotions that flood me whenever I’m with Veronica. I picture us tidying up after our painting sessions every few days, our conversations drifting through whatever thoughts arise, like that show we’re eager to watch. My heart pounds, yet my soul finds peace in her smiles. And in the moments she’s in the bathroom, my mind drifts to the exquisite vision of sharing every night with her, intertwined in her embrace or simply near each other at the edges of the bed.
Still there with me. Mine. As my sunshine.
I shouldn’t let that thought settle inside my head, but I do. While I’m selecting our outfits, hers being the smallest shorts I have—including an elastic waistband, just in case—paired with an oversized shirt, and mine my pajamas, I recognize that an idea I previously disliked doesn’t seem so terrible with her as part of it. A shared bed. Clothes laid out on said bed every night as we headed to sleep.
What if I just stayed here a while more?
But what does ‘a while more’ mean to her?
I leave the clothes for her by the bathroom door and distract myself with her phone before it becomes my turn, too. The minutes pass by too quickly, mortified and comforted by the idea of sharing a bed with her. Fuck, I’m twenty-six; at this point I shouldn’t even care about laying next to a woman. I’ve done so with plenty, some that I’ve known, some that I don’t even recall their names. What’s so different now?
Once I head back to my room, I realize precisely what is different. That I really like the woman that is laying between my sheets, humming to herself while typing down on her phone. I could easily spend every Sunday in this way with her, and I wouldn’t have any complaints. However, when she looks up at me, it’s almost overwhelming, because her lips part in a radiant smile as she sits up, highlighting just how gorgeous she looks wearing one of my t-shirts.
“You’re really beautiful. Has anyone ever told you that?” I tell her, getting in the bed and splaying myself under the sheets. I squish my cheek to the pillow, hoping that this feeling in my chest won’t go away but also not wishing to give a name to it just yet. What if I leave and it’s only harder for the two of us?
When have I ever cared about consequences? Only Veronica would ever make me think this way.
“So I’ve heard.” She jokes around, putting her phone to the side and laying on my forearm. Her eyes close, eyelashes sweetly caressing the underside, before she yawns.
“Who were you talking to?”
“Adam. He was wondering where I was all day.” She comments, interlocking a leg between my own before opening her eyes briefly. “I’m so excited. I don’t know how I’ll be able to sleep like this.”
My eyebrows furrow in surprise. “How so?”
“I haven’t had such an enormous project like...ever. I had never painted something so important.” Her arm stretches across the back of my neck, her fingertips tracing patterns in my hair, and the sight of her smile sends a wave of butterflies through my stomach. “But I’m so fucking tired. I couldn’t continue balancing myself on that ladder.”
“That’s what happens when you’re fun-sized.” I play around only to get a reaction out of her.
