Stranger in Moscow

Love me like it's our last

After ten minutes of walking through the streets, Adrian finally stopped in front of an old warehouse that had been converted into a block of apartments. I followed him in and up the stairs which were dingily lit. Maybe he really wasn't all that famous, I thought. It didn't seem like an ideal place to live.

Adrian's apartment was untidy, bordering on dirty in fact, but still somehow likable. The door opened straight onto the living area which held a pile of painting materials, canvases and other art supplies. Paintbrushes, new and old, were everywhere; in glasses of turpentine, in unopened packets and old, used, dry ones seemed to be placed in the oddest of places. The hardwood floor was stained with drops of paint; as were the dozen or so easels that were propped up around the room. Adrian closed the door behind us and before he locked the door.

He hung his jacket up on the peg behind the door and stretched.

"I would offer you a drink but I'm guessing you're not a big fan of whisky," he gestured at the bottle and accompanying a used glass that stood on the windowsill. "And besides, you want to ask your questions and I want to paint my picture so maybe we should skip the formalities. That okay with you?"

"Yeah. Sure." I was acting so nonchalant about this situation, but my mind was literally going in circles as I took in the plethora of completed paintings that hung on the walls, each signed by none other than the man who stood before me. He was very talented. Crazily talented. He'd woven together the most ridiculously contrasting colours to create paintings that looked like they should have been displayed in an upmarket gallery. Most of his works were landscapes, though he had done a few portraits, one of himself included and there were some takes on landmarks that would have made the real articles look exceptionally drab.

I felt the weight of his stare on me. He'd taken one half-finished painting off an easel and replaced it with a fresh clean white canvas. A tall lamp cast a white glow across the area where he stood and I watched as he took a swig of whisky straight from the bottle, his eyes never leaving my nervous frame.

I stepped forward uncertainly. "What?"

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What are you waiting for? Take your clothes off."

I froze. He didn't just say that. Surely, he did not actually just said that. I just continued to stare at him. "I'm sorry?"

He frowned. "I said, take your clothes off. Skip the formalities, remember? I'm going to paint you." He shook his head. "Don't you get it?"

My eyes widened. "Nude? You paint nudes? Why didn't you tell me?"

He stared at me for a second before he laughed dryly. "You knew who I was. I thought it was obvious what I was offering."

"I didn't realize." I just wished that the paint-splattered floor would swallow me up at the moment. "I thought it was a normal portrait. Like these," I gestured at the pictures on the walls. "These ones. Just the face. You looked at my face. I never realized that I had to be naked in order for you to be able to paint me."

Adrian's mouth lifted into a half-smile. "You're uncomfortable. I get it. I know what'll make this easier." He crossed his arms and grasped the hem of his black t-shirt, pulling it off over his head.

I was about to protest but then his torso came into view and my breath got caught in my throat. Jesus. He looked even better without any clothes on. I found myself unable to stop staring as he kicked off his shoes, undid his jeans, and pulled the denim down and off. I should've just looked away, I knew that but I couldn't avert my eyes as he dropped his boxers. Then he stood there, completely confident in his nakedness. I couldn't believe my eyes. I was in a foreign country in a random apartment with a completely naked (gorgeous) man in front of me. If this wasn't the damn American Dream, what the hell was?