Page 14 of Ezekiel
“You like it?” he asked. There was this little speck of worried hope that twinkled in his expression, like he was half expecting me to scoff and write the room off as a waste.
“I love it. Thank you,” I answered honestly.
“Take all the time you wish. You deserve some relaxation.” With that, he left me to it. I twirled in a circle, just taking the room in. With the room to myself and far too much to think on, I filled the copper tub with hot water, delighting in the thought of a good long soak. When I stepped in, the water was deep and soothing. I laid back against the edge, closing my eyes and letting the heat soothe my troubles.
“What am I going to do?” I muttered to myself, opening my eyes to stare at the ceiling. I thought about what Delilah had said, deciding there and then to grow some courage and just talk to him. Maybe if I understood him better, things would be easier.
I mentally went through about a dozen ways the conversation could go, trying to find a way to word things that didn’t make me sound like a whiny child. I wanted him to know that I was a kind and dutiful wife. That I could be that wife to him. I just needed him to trust me, to let me in.
With great reluctance, I stepped out of the tub, letting the water drain as I dried my skin off. It was getting late now, near dinnertime if not past. I should get downstairs and start on a meal, but not before I had a chance to say my piece. With my courage bolstered, or at least feigned, now was the time.
Dressing quickly, I went off in search of my husband. The house was quiet, purely still. I wondered if he had run off to Malachi’s once again. If that were the case, we needed to discuss communication, for sure. I did not want my husband just gallivanting off randomly with no word.
I looked through the kitchen and living room, down the hall to the bedrooms, and then I spotted him. There in his study, facing the window that overlooked the back property, he stood. The lighting was low, with only one lamp on behind him, washing him in a golden glow. He stood before a large easel, palette in hand. He made tiny strokes against the canvas. What he was painting I couldn’t tell, but it was beautiful. What little I could see from my position in the doorway was beautiful. Sweeping long, curved lines of ambers, golds, and browns framed the work, making it look like old paper, worn with time and treasured by someone. The fine detail work he currently focused on hid the bulk of the painting from me.
He painted with his entire body, his stance poised a certain way for this stroke, and that way for another. I could have watched him for hours, just there, so mesmerizing and enthralling. He reached up, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. Doing so made his shirt shift, lifting the back edge and showing me a sinewy line of back to hip. He was strong, built like a swimmer or a runner. That brief glimpse of skin had me feeling heated, but not embarrassed. This was my husband and, surprised as I was to realize it, I found him very attractive.
He was handsome and strong with this mystery surrounding his actions. It drew me in. That little sliver of skin set my pulse pounding. I wished to reach out and touch him. I watched as he placed the brush rod between his teeth, using his free hand to reach back, tugging his shirt up. That glimpse of skin became an expanse of his back. I gasped as golden skin made way to dark black ink.
A tattoo.
Ezekiel Temple had a tattoo. I was flabbergasted. Shocked. Though more at my own reaction than at the fact that it existed. I should have been ashamed; taken aback that my husband would have desecrated his skin, the holy, bodily temple of the Lord with a tattoo. But I wasn’t ashamed. I was curious – and my womanhood was wet and aching. Who was this man and how did he affect me in such a way?
He scratched errantly at a spot on his exposed back, using the time to stretch while he considered his art. As he stretched this way and that, the painting came into view.
And I gasped.
The painting was of my face.
The likeness was uncanny, looking more like a sepia-toned photograph than a painting. When had he done this?
My gasp drew his attention. He turned to look at me.
“Talia?” he voiced in confusion, but I barely heard him.
“Did you paint me?” I asked, stepping forward quickly towards the canvas. He shielded it with his body, like I was going to mess it up somehow.
“When did you have time to do this? When did you start painting? Why did you paint me? Why?” My questions flowed from my mouth. I was helpless to stop them. My mind raced with thoughts, with things I didn’t understand.
“Why didn’t you tell me you painted? Why didn’t you come to our bed last night? Why did you turn me away this afternoon? Why won’t you touch me? Why?” Once the questions had begun, I couldn’t stop them. They just kept coming. Everything I had held inside the last two days bubbled up to the surface and poured out over the situation like liquid magma from a volcano. Effectively destroying everything.
I saw his hands ball into fists at his sides. Saw him clench the painting utensils in his hands as though he were trying to crush them. The veins in his forearms popped and rose to the surface as he tensed further and further.
“Why won’t you just talk to me? Why do you always leave the room? Why, Ezekiel? Why?”
I knew I was pushing it too far, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“STOP!” he screamed, halting every single word that was pouring from my mouth. I looked at him in shock, my eyes wide. Should I have been scared? Worried? Angry? Confused.
Check. Check. Check. Check.
I felt everything and more.
“Will you stop talking?” he began, turning to look me in the face, his breathing labored.
“Will you tell me what’s going on?” I shot back. I immediately slapped my hand over my mouth. What had come over me?
“Will you just please give me a moment to think?” he tried again, his brow furrowing.
