I frowned, staring up at the ceiling. It was dark, and all I could see was the dim shapes of the light fixture in my room, although my eyes were slowly but surely adjusting to the darkness. I let out a sigh, folding my arm behind my head. I wanted to have a perfect date. Something sweet, and romantic, and something she'd love. But I kept coming up empty-handed, no matter how desperately I was racking my brain.
Giving up, I rolled over in bed, picking up the phone and dialing Paul's number. Sure it was nearly 1 in the morning, but there was a 9 in 10 chance he'd still be awake. It rang about twice before, as I expected, he picked up the phone.
"'Lo this is Paul Stanley," he said, sounding perfectly wide awake.
"Hey, it's Gene. Look I know this is really random and it's late, I was just...what would you say your ideal date is?" I asked.
There was a very long pause and I was starting to worry that the connection had dropped before he spoke again.
"Why...do you ask?" he asked slowly.
"I want to give Bea a special night and I feel like your idea of an ideal date would be closer to hers than mine would," I said, closing my eyes, and he chuckled, letting out a hum of agreement before sighing.
"That's a good question. I think if I had a choice, I'd...it would be at my place, we'd share some wine, listen to some music, and...and paint each other," he said. "Then we'd have dinner and let whatever happened next happen."
"What music?" I asked. "What wine? What paint?"
He laughed and I could practically see him rolling his eyes. "Laura Nyro, Penfolds 1971 red Grange, acrylic."
"Thanks," I said, committing it all to memory. "I'll let you go since it's late, see you around!"
We said our goodbyes and I hung up, dialing Bea's number and leaving a message telling her to come over Friday night before finally dropping off to sleep.
By Friday, I had assembled everything Paul had suggested to me. A poured glass of wine for Bea was sitting on a table beside a record player, which had the needle poised and ready to drop on Eli and the Thirteenth Confession as soon as Bea arrived. The bell rang and I took a deep breath, straightening my shirt and combing my fingers through my hair to neaten it before walking to the door, pulling it open.
Bea gave me a smile, tilting her head to the side. "Mm you look nice. I thought you told me to dress casual."
"I did, this is casualwear for me," I said, giving her a kiss and leading her inside as she giggled.
"Bullshit, we both know you never dress this nice," she teased, and I raised an eyebrow.
"Oh but a crop top and headscarf and bellbottoms are casualwear for you?" I asked, feeling my face grow warm as soon as the words left my mouth. It was quite obviously in fact casualwear for her, and just about anyone could see that.
"Yes," she retorted, before looking at the setup in the living room in surprise. "What's all this?"
"I thought...we could have a little casually romantic date," I said, walking over and dropping the needle on the record player. "You paint, don't you? Isn't that how you met Paul? He was getting paints and you were getting brushes?"
A soft pink glow spread across her cheeks as she smiled up at me, eyes warm and soft. "You remembered?" she murmured, and I nodded.
"Of course I do. I pay attention to the things you tell me," I said, giving her a peck on the lips and handing her the glass of wine. "I don't drink but I know you do on occasion, don't feel pressured to drink if you don't want to though. The bottle is yours to do with as you please."
She took a sip of wine, letting out a hum. "Oh, you're really spoiling me. This is excellent."
"The best for the best," I said with a shrug. "I um...it might be a little corny but I thought we could...that it would be fun to paint portraits of each other. Well, you can paint, I prefer pen and ink personally so I was just-just gonna use that."
Bea took another sip of wine before setting the glass down, slipping an arm around my neck. "The press is wrong about you. You're quite the sweetheart beneath the demon," she said.
I slipped an arm around her bare waist, tucking a single loose curl that was spilling down her forehead back into her headscarf. "Only for you, my dear," I said, melting into a kiss.
At last we broke apart and she giggled, giving my hand a squeeze. "I'll have to see if I can properly convey that side of you in paint," she said, walking over to the easel I had set up. "Let me paint you first, then I'll model for you."
"Nude?" I asked, ducking to avoid the paintbrush she hurled at me with a laugh.
I sat across from the easel, posing as she told me to. It was silent besides the music and the sound of the brush on canvas. After getting chided to hold still and stop messing her up about a dozen times, I managed to sit motionless, content to just watch her as she worked. Her lips were pursed into a frown, eyes narrowed. With a huff, she brushed the same loose curl out of her face, getting a smudge of paint on her forehead, and I longed to reach over and wipe the line of yellow off the silky flesh it was marring. I could practically hear the soft sound of her breathing, watching her chest rise and fall steadily, a few flecks of paint spattered across the lavender fabric that ever so delicately curved over her breasts.
At last, she sat back, looking at the easel with the same frown before it twitched up into a smile. "There. I think it's done. Draw me, and then we'll compare."
"I hope da Vinci is ready to have the Mona Lisa replaced," I said, grabbing my sketchbook and pens, and she snorted with laughter.
"Oh, you're the next da Vinci, are you?" she asked, and I grinned.
"No, you're just the next Mona Lisa," I replied, and she blushed furiously, unable to come up with a retort.
I studied her features closer than I had ever before as I drew her. The face slowly coming into shape on the page beneath me was familiar, one that I had stared at plenty of times before, one that I had known and would continue to know. Of course, it was impossible to entirely translate her beauty to the page, but at last I felt I had gotten close enough and straightened up.
"There. I'll call the Louvre tomorrow morning," I said with a smile, and she giggled.
"Oh stop being so full of yourself," she said in exasperation, and I pouted.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm the most humble person that ever lived."
She burst into laughter, shaking her head. "You're insufferable. I should've tried to capture that in my painting," she said, turning her easel around, and I felt my breath catch.
It was me, but not exactly. I looked kinder, softer, the version of me I knew I should always have been. She had painted me as she had seen me, and in her eyes I was a better man than I truly was.
"Bea...I don't...I don't know what to say," I said after a pause, and she giggled.
"It must be good if you of all people is speechless. Now let me see what you did."
I handed her the sketchbook, knowing it wasn't nearly as good as her painting of me, but she fell silent just as I had.
"I love it," she choked out after a pause. "I really love it."
"It doesn't look as perfect as you, but I did my best," I said, rising to my feet and planting a kiss on her forehead. "You're a perfect model, even if you choose to stay clothed."
I knew I was ruining the moment, but a part of me was desperate to slip back into the safe armor I built out of short quips and constant comments of lust, terrified of the tenderness and introspection she was making me feel.
She rolled her eyes with a smile, standing up. "You're hopeless," she said with a sigh, and I caught her lips in a kiss.
"But I'm yours. Shall we get dinner now?" I asked, and she smiled.
"I'd like that."
