To Lykke,
for invoking the words to come out and play. :)
________
It's early but she pours herself another glass anyways, relishing the warmth that trails down her throat and the bitter aftertaste that dries in her mouth.
"Does this angle work for you?" she asks over her shoulder with a smile that somehow gets her to peer over the rim of her glass.
"Hm?"
"I figured you'd get more skin with this."
She laughs, light and bouncing off the walls of her studio. It settles a couple of seconds after and all she could think about is the dip in her shoulders and the dimples on her back that the white fabric barely covered.
"What makes you think I wanted more skin?" She tries to keep a straight face, but knows the
unevenness of her smile gives her away.
"That's your third glass and we haven't even started yet," she looks her in the eyes, a silent little dare to get her to admit that—yes, she wanted more skin but no, not for this. "we both know how you suck at being subtle."
She takes another sip of her bourbon, dragging the silence before chuckling at the absurdity—that for some strange reason, she's being rather shy around her today and that rarely happens.
"Don't use me to justify your need to show off, and even if I did want it," she smiles, "it would solely be for artistic purposes."
She laughs, hair falling to cover her shoulder. "Well that's something I haven't heard before."
"That's because you never listen." She turns away, keeping her gaze on the untouched brush lying by her palette before meeting her gaze. "Although, I'd be lying if I said the angle isn't working."
Her chuckles never really managed to stay long enough to fill the space between them, and she thinks everything about her is fleeting and maybe that's why they're both here.
"Of course, all for the sake of art." The sarcasm isn't lost to her and she laughs in response, "Are you going to stop staring and actually start painting?"
"You like it when I stare," she finishes the rest of her drink and walks towards her.
She catches her breath hitch and the quick flutters of eyelashes that she finds frames her eyes in ways she can't fully explain most days. It's a momentary break in her confidence and it brings a surge of warmth that blooms in her chest that she indulges herself in, because Jennie is never not confident.
Except with her.
"I do." comes the breathy response, her voice shakes and she can't keep herself from smiling.
"I know." She reaches for one end of the cloth wrapped around her waist, and she knows she's trying hard to keep her eyes on her hands and not on her.
She pools the fabric closer to her and she tries not to but her skin looks softer up close, and the little oh that escapes her mouth when her fingers brushed past her waist took every bit of resolve left inside her to fall to her feet and so she ends up falling to her knees.
"Is this better?" she asks, and something about it weighed heavily.
She doesn't say anything in return, choosing to look into her eyes instead. A thought comes uninvited, and she tries to ignore it. Focusing on the swirls of dark rich brown that she tries hard to capture on canvas but always manages to look different every time—because it's lighter beneath the sun and lights and with everyone else.
