Love & Orgasms

The Painting

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Angelica's POV.

Another tear leaks from my eye and rolls down my cheek, leaving behind it a warm track that turns cold in the air as it evaporates. I don't swipe at it or dry my eyes; I can't stop what I'm doing. The palette is in my left hand, balanced perfectly as my brush moves frantically across the canvas. There is no music, no background noise, only the sound of my brush dabbing in paint and sweeping over the taut material, creating the picture held so clearly in my mind.

It has been too long. My body is aching to be there. My fingers have been itching for days as I dreamed up the right place. It took me ages to find the right paints, the right shades, it only added days to my wait. The build-up is killing me. I just want the piece finished; I want this to be over.

Last time I went in, it took days before I got out. The painting had been of a meadow on a perfect day. The temperature had been idyllic, the breeze adding the gentle chill required to stop perspiration. I had picked flowers and danced among the trees and explored to keep myself busy, but I had been relieved when my mother had finally gotten me out. I had made the mistake of only painting the meadow, I didn't give myself any possibilities beyond the forest. I didn't even give myself a friend to talk to. Any longer in that artwork and I may have gone crazy.

But this time, no one will be here to get me out. My mother is gone. She will not be here to say the special words to bring me back to the real world. She will not be here to drag me back to reality. There is nothing left for me here. No one to save me, no one to stay for.

I step back, pausing briefly to admire my handiwork so far. The sea and sky are done. The dots of islands in the distance provides endless possibilities. I will not limit myself like I made the mistake of doing last time. The beach house is done, sitting proudly amongst the dunes in the far left. I can practically feel the sand between my toes, I'm almost there.

All that is left is him.

I left the best to last, as is tradition. I wash out my brush and dip it into a new colour, ready to paint my entire reason for starting this task. It has taken me days to bring this painting along. Today, however, I cannot allow the paint to dry before I am ready.

I'm an impatient perfectionist as I guide my brush across the canvas, painting him as standing by the house, looking out wistfully to the waves. I take great care on his face, getting his nose, lips, and eyes, just right. I give his brown hair a kiss of gold from the sun. I don't pay much attention to his outfit; a simple cotton shirt and shorts will do. My excitement builds as he develops in the painting, becoming the man of my dreams.

How many times have I dreamed of this face?

How many times have I heard his voice, begging me to join him?

How many times have I woken up with an almost unbearable longing in my heart?

No longer. No more after today. This is it, now. I'm getting my happy ending.

I focus on adding the sinew to his arms, the subtle crook to his nose and the curve to his lips. They're formed into a smile, one of relief and recognition. His eyes are shining in the late afternoon light. The sun is low, sitting not far above the water. Sunset will be in an hour, but the warmth shall not go away. The sea will still be pleasant to swim in, the breeze still mellow.

I add the final touches. A couple shells here and there, a lone crab wading along the shore, a stack of books in the window of the cottage, an old picnic blanket rolled up for another day on the sand. On the horizon, I moor a pretty yacht, ready for our adventures.

I lower my brush and step back. Satisfied, I place it into the glass of water and wipe my hands on my jeans. I grab a nearby brush and comb it through my hair, trying to tame the frizzy mess. Eventually, I give up and shove it all up into a bun. I check my make-up in the mirror and put on my favourite earrings. A dash of perfume and I'm ready.

I stand in front of the painting and wait for it to dry. It won't take long, it never does. The radiator is on in the corner, the room is warm. I can already see it losing its shine as it hardens and turns matte.

I close my eyes and eagerly wait for any form of sign. Any sign that this is beginning. There's nothing for a while and I become restless, constantly shifting my weight. I keep my eyes closed but roll my shoulders.

The salty tang on my lips is the first thing I notice. I can still hear the cars on the street outside, the distant honks and roars of engines, but there is a definite salty taste when I lick my lips. A breeze moves my hair, bringing with it a whiff of salt. There are no open windows in my flat. I'm nowhere near water.

The sounds of the street fade away. Crashing waves replace them, faint at first but steadily growing louder. The first cry from a seagull makes me jump. I spread my arms wide and lower them, skimming my hands around myself in a circle to try and feel something. A scrape against my palm makes me smile. I wrap my fingers against the marram grass and tug gently, feeling the resistance.

It's real.

It's happening.

I dare to open my eyes. The seagulls circle ahead, cawing and catching the air pockets. The sea, just how I painted it, looks clear and inviting. The lone crab scurries into the surf. I bend down to look at one of the shells I produced, marvelling at the detail that painting took on.

I put the shell back down on the sand and straighten up. My heart warms at the sight of the beach house cottage. So quaint and perfect. Everything that we need. My toes sink into the sand as I start walking towards it.

The man in front of the building turns at my approach. My breath catches in my throat as our eyes meet. His intense blue eyes, like two cuts of lapis lazuli, stare into my very soul. He frowns at first, but it soon morphs into a smile as I near him. His lips pull up on either side of his mouth and his eyebrows lift in surprise.

"What took you so long?"

A sob escapes my throat, followed by the rush of hot tears. He reaches out and pulls me in for a hug, confirming his tangibility. I rub my hands up and down his back, feeling his muscles. He smells of sea, musk, and coconut. Exactly how I wanted him to.

I'm here, I'm actually here!

"I'm sorry," I apologise to him.

He pulls back and wipes the tears from my face. "It doesn't matter. You're here, now."

We look at each other for a moment, scanning each other's faces. He kisses me, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist. I push up off the sand to my tiptoes to kiss him better, tasting the salt on his lips, too. The wind catches my hair, whipping it up around us like a hug, letting me know its grateful I'm here.

"You're home," he says when we pull apart. "Let's get you inside."

I can't imagine anything better.

That night, we lay on the fluffy rug in front of the fireplace, our bodies connected and undulating against each other. We bring each other to the highest peak, crying out our love in a heated passion. We don't move away, even long after, when the stars have come out and the moon is full. We look at the sky out of the window, making plans and sharing wishes.

Everything I have wanted is here. I don't need anything else.

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