The art of her love

Chapter One

An outfit is laying on the bed when I enter my room, wet hair and towel around my waist.
"Thank you Jeza," I call out. I remember the conversation from earlier this morning when I said to her over french toast that I didn't know what to wear. A green tight polo neck that I'm fairly sure belongs to one of my brothers, with a clean cut black coat, a golden latch leather belt from our fathers closet, a pair of his leather dress shoes too, polished.
"Let me see it on you, before you leave," she calls back from downstairs.
While dressing I try to assess my feelings. I'm not nervous, not anxious like I thought I might be. Not nearly as jittery and overwhelmed as I was when I did my first student exhibition at eighteen. Then again I was far more attached to my art in that showroom. Or when I threw up several times and nearly passed out for my finals last year. Maybe my confidence has increased. Or maybe my lack of a shit to give towards art critiques has overthrown my external need for validation. The only anticipation I feel now is to get this over with.
"How do I look?" I ask jeza in the kitchen, she turns and smiles, dusting her flour hands off on her apron. She's making cookies again, which she does when she's stressed. 
"You should let me style you every day," she beams, walking over and twirling her finger for me to give her a turn.
"You basically already do," I remind her, spinning for her. Half of my closet are things she's picked out or brought for me.
She runs her hands through my hair, pushing my fringe back.
"Put some hair wax in," she frowns.
"Fine," I know better than to argue, I've always looked better when I follow her style instructions.
"How are you feeling about your recital?" I ask her. She gestures to the baking trays and dough in response.
"Not great at the moment, dad made me stop practicing today, I was at the piano for six hours straight," she sighs, massaging her left wrist, "and I think Jasper and Alex are definitely sick of me."
"They'll forget about it after you give them cookies," I say.
"I've contemplated trading it in for some money and a keyboard I can plug earphones into," she says jokingly, but I know she would never do that. It was our mother's piano, a Steinway she brought with her first savings, when she was around my age. I know as soon as I make any serious money I'll buy Jeza a keyboard she can practice with too.
"Forest green really looks good with your dark hair and eyes," she steps back and evaluates as if she can take credit for those traits.
"Cufflinks?" She asks, not really a question.
"I have some already for you Flynn," our dads voice says from behind me. I turn to see him standing in the doorway, a small black box in hand. I let him put the Cufflinks in, as I have since I wore my first suit at eight. He always insisted on them.
"You sure you don't want us there my boy?" He asks, dusting the non existent dust off my shoulders.
"I'm sure dad, it's..." I've never had to use many words with him, he always knows what I mean with the minimum I use.
"Not your art," he says for me, nodding. But I can feel the support and pride from him nonetheless in his brown eyes, his smile wrinkles around them.
"I think dad just wants an excuse to see naked women," Jeza rolls her eyes.
"I have the internet for that," he chirps back.
"Ew dad," she scowls.
"I want to see naked women," Alex says, coming down the stairs, "you sure I can't come with tonight? It's like the only art show of yours I actually want go to."
"Thanks for your support," I roll my eyes at him.
"You're welcome," his narrowed eyes scan my outfit, "nice polo, I believe it's mine."
"Looks better on me," I neaten the neck.
"Also I'll take anything to get away from that fucking piano," he mutters, heading for the fridge.
"No cookies for you then," Jeza scoffs.
"No I love your piano Jeza," he switches up real quick, leaving the fridge and forcing a hug around her shoulders, "I don't at all want to turn it into fire wood."
"You ever dare and you'll be on a spit over that fire," Jeza pushes him off.
"You'll take my car?" My dad asks me, handing me his keys.
"Yeah thanks dad, my bike in this suit isn't a great idea," I take them, "I'll be home around midnight."
"You can be out all night, have fun son," his firm hand delivers two smacks to my back as he heads past to the lounge.
"Yes stay out," Alex says, heading back upstairs with snacks in hand, "I don't want to run tomorrow morning."
"Oh we're running buddy, 6am" I call up after him before heading out the front door.
As much as I love my family, I really can not wait to have my own place. Number two goal for the year. First though is finish this damn internship. One year and nine months to go.
I am grateful for my internship, it was purely based on luck and connections that I got it. Harry Goldsmen, one of the top recognized art collectors and artists in the UK, with Six galleries and multiple internationally recognized awards to his reputation. My aunts husband knew him from the university days, that and the man had only had female interns for the past 6 years and obviously needed to get some diversity points. I snort to myself at my thoughts, me the white straight middle class fully abled man. The diversity cast.
The other four interns are all women, all very conventionally attractive, all fresh from university. All very creative, talented and skillful without doubt. But it wasn't their artistic abilities that purely won Harry's attention.
Our first assignment, amongst following Harry around to all his various meetings like a gaggle of geese, was to work on an exhibition selection of nudes. The instructions were to do both male and female non sexualized or sexualized nudes, and there had to be twelve of them. Everything else was free for interpretation. It felt basic and a little too predictable, and very quickly gave me all the insight I needed to our mentor and the type of man he was. Watching him oversee the process of the others, verse how he interacted with mine, opened my eyes to how differently men and women are treated, especially by older men. Jeza helped me from a young age see it from a feminine perspective. I heard her frustratedly talk about countless inappropriate interactions with men and how she had to tread her way through the world as a young woman.
It had only been three months, yet I felt a deep rooted growing vine of distain towards Harry. One that I need to keep in it's roots.
The gallery is in Camden Town, and parking to no surprise took way longer to find than I planned for. Even in winter the streets, pubs and restaurants are busy. I probably could have taken the train.
By the time I got to the entrance the gallery outside had a crowd of smokers with wine glasses in hand, and after moving through them I saw it was already fairly bustling with hushed conversation inside. I smiled at the man I'd met earlier while putting up my work, now standing checking for tickets in the door, and he tips his hat and stands aside for me.
The lighting in the first room is fairly bright, and the black and white charcoal sketches line the white walls in black frames. Clarisa went with charcoal, that she made from burning wood from different trees that she took photos of with her models in them as her references. I spotted her standing talking with Kazuna and a man I don't recognize and walk over. Her face lightens up when she sees me, and hugs me tight.
"Flynn you look so sexy," she squels, squeezing my shoulders as she let's me go.
"You look wonderful," I give her a smile, hugging Kazuna next.
"That green really is your colour," Kazuna agrees, gesturing to the man next to her, "this is my boyfriend Matt."
"Hey man, nice to meet you," he shakes my hand with a tight grip but a genuine smile.
"Likewise, Kazunas has said a lot about you." She had, indeed, said a lot about him, I felt like I knew more about him than he'd be comfortable with me knowing. Being the only guy in a group of four women, they included me in all of their conversation circles, whether I wanted to hear it or not.
"How are you feeling?" Kazuna asks me, she looks jittery on her feet. I can feel her anxiety, and Matt places a hand on her back and she leans into him for comfort.
"I'm honestly just tired," I say, taking a glass of wine offered to me by one of the waiters hired to make sure everyone in the gallery had a full glass. Harry always had alcohol involved at his exhibitions, loosens the minds and the wallets, he told us.
"Not nervous?" Clarisa asks, biting at a nail, her eyes scanning the small groups around us walking and standing around looking at her pieces, "if it weren't for my medication and predrinking three pints I'd be having a panick attack right now."
"I don't even want to be in my room right now, watching people react in real time is way to much," Kazuna agrees.
"All I've heard is positive feedback," Matt tries to reassure them both. She wasn't lying, he is sweet.
"This is definitely the biggest exhibition I've done, there's so many people," Clarisa says in a hushed voice, grabbing my arm and huddling up to me, "why are there so many people Flynn!"
"Your work wouldn't be here if it didn't desserve to be," I tell her, placing a hand over hers and squeezing it.
"You're so calming, you know that," she sighs, her head on my shoulder, "Have you checked on yours yet?"
"I'll get there," I say, wanting to put it off.
"Never let me take the front room again," Clarisa says.
"I told you," Kazuna reminds her.
"Also never let me invite my parents to a nude exhibition again," clarisa hides her face with her spare hand in embarrassment.
"No you didn't!" Kazuna exclaims covering her mouth. I laugh, shaking my head at her.
"Yeah they're coming a bit later," Clarisa sighs regretfully.
"For once I am so glad mine live in Japan," Kazuna jokes.
"You have any family coming?" Clarisa asks me.
"No," I shake my head, "just some old school friends. Didn't exactly want my siblings and father at this one."
"I still think Harry threw us in the deep end with this one," Kazuna says as she looks around.
"Oh its a test without a doubt," Clarisa nods.
"Where is Harry?" I ask.
"Not sure right now," Clarisa says "he's been talking to so many different people. You know how it is with him, everyone wants his attention."
"I'm going to go find him," I excuse myself, heading to the next room, sipping my wine.
For artists a gallery exhibition is not just about displaying and selling art, it is about connecting, networking as Harry called it in business terms. Connecting with other artists, with collectors, making your face synonymous with your art and style. People connect with people as much as they do to art. There's no such thing as death of the artist here.
I pause to look at Kazunas unique style in the second room, the walls in here are dark maroon, matching the maroon ribbons that snake around the dancing naked bodies in black ink.
Entering the third room I see Bronwyn, talking to two people, she waves when she sees me and I wave back, leaving her to talk. She created her nudes out of her own period blood, and used condoms on white bed sheets. I remember the initial shock and disguised disgust of Harry's reacted when she showed him the first two, suprising him with her concept. It was deeply satisfying to watch him have to challenge himself. However after a time he found a way to twist it into something he must have inspired in her. I like Bron, her fierceness and rebellious nature, her caring and energetic personality.
I move on to the room with Rebecca's work, finding her standing with Harry and two other men. She sees me and beccons me over, giving me a side hug as I join the group.
"Flynn! Perfect, I want you to meet-" Harry greets me with a clap to the shoulder, before introducing me to the other two men, both art collectors. I forget their names almost as soon as he says them, they blend into the sea of names I hear in the next hour. I serve my most charming mask I can, drifting from repeating conversation to the next about how wonderful it is to see so many different perspectives on the naked body, the multitudes of messages that can be portrayed through the depiction of human flesh. I heard the terms groundbreaking and inclusive, feministic, socially challenging. And bit my tongue. Nodding in agreement with what felt like word salads from art critiques only willing to tell you the positive sides of their opinions to your face, and leave the rest for their online reviews. Eventually I slipped away from Harry's side and found a seat on a couch in a corner of the room that held Kazunas portraits.
One of my favorite things to do in art galleries is watch the people. Watch their reactions when they think no one is looking. See how long their eyes linger on the pieces. Are they alone, are they with a friend, a partner. The comments they make to eachother, would they think them - if they had no one to say them out loud to?
The ones I watch closely are the ones alone. They aren't preforming their reaction, they aren't matching their thoughts to another's. They linger when something truly catches their eye. They pause when something stands out and speaks to them. Do they return another time before they leave? do they struggle to look away?
Londoners love their greys and blacks, and in the midst of winter the coats and scarfs and gloves are out. A warm gallery on nights like these are often just used as an escape from the cold between dinner and a show. You could see who came here as a destination and who stopped by on the way to theirs. I watch a group of three young women converse in hushed voices, not really noticing the art but walking through the rooms anyways. A middle age couple who seem pleasantly surprised and intrigued by the work around them. Two men making jokes to eachother to ease the tension they feel of being straight and looking at erotic work.
She is alone when I first see her, and maybe that's why my focus is drawn to her, and lingers. Or perhaps that amongst the grey she is the only one wearing colour, her coat a dark forest green.
Or it's the way she stands, hands in her pockets, one leg crossing the path of the other, the confidence and comfort in her posture, the way she tilts her head slightly. My eyes follow her steps to the next piece, slow and in no rush. I find myself leaning forward, sitting up from my relaxed state. A hand leaves her pocket and tucks one of the few loose strands of dark hair behind her ear, the rest pulled up into a high bun held by a gold pin.
I haven't seen her face yet, unable to break my gaze on her until I do. Something in me needs to see her. More than that. Something in me needs to know her.
I stand from the cushioned seating in the corner I'd been leaning back in for the past twenty minutes, my hands sliding into my pockets as I move adjacent to her across the room, a few paces behind. I don't mean to be the sort of man to follow a woman, but my body moves before my mind thinks. I pause when she does again, this time her head tilting the other way and mine does the same, mimicry without intention.
I wonder why she is alone. If shes waiting for someone. If she wondered off from a group.
Who would leave such a beautiful woman alone. Yet the comfort in being alone is attractive to me. That she doesn't pay attention to anything but the art.
She moves through one of the open doorways to the next room and I step through the other. Excitement stirs in the pit of my chest as she turns her head, but a group walks in between and I do not see her face. My attention is broken as the group greets me, in my hyper focus on the woman I did not even recognize my own friends.
"There you are, we were just looking for you," Jess hugs me. I try very hard not to try look around her. I tell myself I can find the owner of the green goat and gold hair pin later.
"You found me," I say, turning my attention to her.
"You didn't tell us this was a nude exhibition, this is great," Jack is beaming. I smile and roll my eyes.
"And here I was thinking you'd be excited about the free wine," I say.
"Oh trust me mate I am," Jack toasts his glass to me.
"He's not lying we've been here twenty minutes and that's his second glass," Jess adds, before asking excitedly, "So which are yours?"
"Last room," I nod towards the next doorways.
"I'm so proud of you Flynn," she squeezes my arm.
"Yeah dude this internship is ace, this place is fancy as hell," Jack says looking around, "who knew you with the art degree would be the one to be the most successful out of us."
"I got lucky," I say honestly.
"Maybe but also you deserve this, don't discredit yourself," Jack toasts to me, "congrats on your first big exhibition brother."
Jess and I clink his glass and I smile. I may not have has many friends in school. But the ones I did make are the good kind.
"So it's going well then?" Jess asks, "you've been so busy we've barely seen you the last three months."
"Its been a lot of work, I'm sorry," I say, feeling a bit of guilt, I could be better on the phone, "yes, it's well, interesting. I'll make more plans though when I have time, between work and this it's been hard to balance everything."
"Yeah adulting is less fun than I thought it was going to be," Jess says.
"How's masters going for you guys?" I ask, and we chat about their lives in residency, they tell me about the new friends they've made, the drama at their new jobs, their new favorite local pub. We had been friends for most of our lives, I'd met Jack in second grade and Jess in the fourth, and we'd been inseparable since. Even into high-school we stayed in the same grade, shared a lot of firsts. First time stealing our parents alcohol, first time time getting drunk, first cigarette, first joint, first relationships.
We ended up all going to the same university but for different majors, so our university days were shared too. I'd seen them grow up from kids to teens, and I'd grown up along side them. Even now as I listen to them talk, the fact that they came tonight despite me telling them they didn't need to, regardless of my lack of communication the past few months, they came.
"Anyways enough about my stupid thesis I did not come here to talk about that, let's see your stuff!" Jess links her arm with mine, dragging me in the direction of the last room.
"Oh my god Flynn," she gasps quietly, letting go of my arm and spinning slowly, "these are incredible!"
I smile and watch them get closer, whispering between eachother. I hang back, looking around.The room looks so much more different than it did merely 12 hours ago, when it was empty aside from the twelve boxes that held my art. Now the walls are covered, and there's at least fifteen to twenty people staring at them.
There she was, alone and facing a nude of a woman. I can feel my heart racing again. Watching her step closer to it and lean in, I wish I could read her thoughts. I take a few steps towards her and hesitate. I note that this is the longest shes looked at a piece that I've seen so far. One of the waitresses approaches her, offering to top up her glass and she turns to accept. Whatever my mind had conjured up about what her face might look like falls astronomically short of how beautiful she is. I feel stunned.
"Dude this is so professional! Have I said I'm proud of you?" Jess and Jack appear at my side again, once again calling my attention from her.
"Thanks," I say distractedly, not wanting to loose sight of her again, "sorry I mean you have said it but thank you."
"Who are you staring at?" Jack squints at me, both him and Jess trying to follow my line of sight.
"No one-" I attempt, tearing my gaze from her.
"Oh she is fucking hot mate," Jack whistles. Too late.
"The one in the green coat?" Jess asks, glancing at me to read my reaction, catching it immediate and giving me a smirk before looking back in the woman's direction. I can feel my face is hot, and it's not from the alcohol.
"Go talk to her!" Jack shoves my shoulder lightly.
"I'm with him go," Jess pokes me, "go!"
"No," I say, looking back at her, now alone again staring at the next piece, immediately feeling even more flustered if it were possible, "what the hell would I even say?"
"Are you kidding me??" Jack says and I hush him, he lowers his voice, "she is literally looking at your art work bro."
"Exactly, go ask her what she thinks," Jess gives me a push.
"I-" I turn to them.
"Go!" Both of them point. I raise my hands in defeat and turn, sliding them into my pockets and taking a deep breath. Tentatively walking towards her I try to figure out what to say. As I step into the place next to her I get a hit what I assume is her perfume. It's not too sweet of a scent, feminine, hints of candlewood, faint cinnamon tea, honey flower and fresh coconut.
I see her looking over to me me out of the corner of my vision, I force myself to stare straight at the piece as her eyes linger on me.
It's of a women, I spent hours staring at this canvas. She's naked and washing herself with a cloth from a bucket, seated on a three legged stool. It's water colour, slightly abstracted by the rings around the layers of colour. Her body isn't done with hard lines. The women next to me looks back at the painting.
"What do you feel?" She asks. Her voice feels like satin over silk, it tastes like cool water in my brain. Soft and sharp. The question surprises me, I take a moment to answer.
"Like she misses her mother bathing her," I say. I never meant to tell anyone anything behind my thoughts while creating these pieces. Looking at her I ask "what do you feel?"
"In some African cultures women bath the feet, hands and faces of eachother, and of the men and children when they come home," she says, and after a few moments,  "I feel she is alone."
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. I want to tell her I know. But I don't. I like this game. She steps back, walking around me to the next canvas. My eyes follow her. She turns her head to me and our eyes meet. She tilts her head, her eye browse raising slightly. A small smile comes to her lips, as if to say, well are you coming?
I can't keep the smile from my own face as I walk over to her, walking around and standing to her right again. Both of us observe in silence. The hushed conversations fade from the room, and the people having them do too, till it feels like it's only us standing here.
"What do you see?" I look at her, watching her side profile as her eyes scan the canvas. This one is of two people, in the same setting of a bucket and wooden stool. One is the woman, now kneeling behind the bucket infront of the stool, washing a young man's feet who sits on it, slouching with his face lowered and cast in shadow.
"I see a mother," she says softly, pausing and titling her head, "I see a son. Its... a memory, the colors are faded, the shadow hides his face," she raises a hand to point, her fingers dance delicately in the air, "She is still alone, her body is collapsed, tired, as if she has carried the weight of mourning."
I stare at her, feeling naked, feeling like the boy on the stool. Vulnerable, read like a book.
"What do you see?" She turns the question to me, as her head turns to meet my stare. Her eyes are dark brown in this light, her gaze feels piercing, cutting straight into me, inquisitive.
"I see a woman who has spent her life washing others, and has never let someone else hold the cloth," I say quietly, not breaking the contact. Her look softens, a smile hiding in it.
"Perhaps no one has offered to take it from her," she says in a softer voice. I look away, out of fear she might see right into me if I let her look too long. I move to the next frame, enjoying the sound of her heels as she takes her steps, walking around me and standing at my right this time.
The third canvas ties the story. The man who sat on the stool now stands alone, his full body in frame as he faces the bucket and empty stool, the cloth in his hand. I wait for her to speak.
"Longing," she says finally, I can hear the sadness in her voice, "for something that never was, and never will be."
"Acceptance," I say, simply. I feel her shift to studying me again, I feel her curiosity.
"I don't think it's his style," I say, clearing my throat and redirecting the focus from what feels like me back to the art. Although that would also, be me.
"His style?" She asks, with a slightly sly smile.
"Yes, it doesn't feel like a medium he wants to use, the water colour," I say, testing the colourful waters of our conversation, watching for her reaction.
"What makes you think the artist is a man?" She asks, the sly smile growing, her head tilting and her arms crossing.
"You don't think he's a man?" I dance around her question. She looks back at the canvas and then the other two we just stood before.
"I do think he's a man," she says, eyes back to me, "I am curious to know why you made the assumption."
"His brushwork is harsh and abstract, his colors are dulled, his subjects are more active than passive," I say, using the same langauge Harry used to describe my approach.
"I think that's intentional," she says, taking me by surprise, "he's young, exploring definitely, the technique is amateur. I feel a sense of irritation, frustration, and yet also hesitation."
"Huh," I say, looking back and smiling to myself. It's a rare experience. To feel seen through the art. To not just have the sight settle itself on the piece, but also to the one who pieced it together. But to feel seen by her through my art, even if she doesn't know it, well I'm not sure how to process how that makes me feel.
"Almida there you are!" Harry's voice brings with it everyone into the room with their conversations, no longer alone in our moment both she and I turn.
"Ah and Flynn, wondered where you got off too," Harry directs his charming smile at me. I watch as he slips his arm around the woman's waist, and it's only when he kisses her cheek does the realization start to sink in, like a deep stone in my chest.
"I see you have met my wife Almida," he says just as it's sunk.
"Your wife-" I accidentally speak my thoughts and catch myself, quickly covering with a forced smile "yes, we just met."
"This is Flynn, one of my interns," he says to her, and I watch as she too has a realization moment, her eyes flickering from me to the art just as Harry gestures around, "these are his works."
Her smile grows slowly, her eyes sparkling. I try hide mine.
"He was just telling me about them," she says. I hear the teasing underlying layer to her tone, acknowledging the play I'd constructed between us.
"Sorry to pull her away from you," Harry says to me, turning to her, "but there's some people who want to talk to you darling, you haven't come to an exhibition in a while, you've been missed."
"It was nice to meet you Flynn," the sound of my name on her lips almost sends me to my knees. She gives me one last smile as Harry starts to walk away, lingering a moment before following him. She looks back once last time to the three paintings we just stood infront before looking back to me, "well done."
I watch her walk away, feeling windswept and like I just stepped off a Rollercoaster with the endorphins that I feel buzzing through my nervous system and blood stream.
"It was nice to meet you too, Almida," I say quietly to myself. She is already gone. I spot Jack and Jess huddled together where I left them, clearly having watched everything. They come speed walking over.
"And?" Jess asks excitedly, "that looked like it went well!"
"Who was that at the end?" Jack asks.
"That was her husband," I say, still wrapping my mind around that. I knew Harry was married, he mentioned his children and wife on occasion.
"Oh," Jess drops the excitement.
"And my mentor," I say.
"Oh," she says at it clicks for her. It takes a moment for it to click for Jack.
"Shit, so that was his wife?" He asks. I nod.
"That sucks," Jess voices my thoughts. It does indeed, suck.
"Want to join us for a pint at kings arms down the road?" Jack asks in an attempt to cheer me up.
"No, thank you though," I say, giving them both a smile to try reassure their sympathy, "you guys enjoy, have one for me. I have an early run with Alex tomorrow morning."
"Rather you than me mate," Jack shakes his head at that, "say hi to Alex for me, miss that kid."
"Yeah say hi to Jeza and Jasper too for us," Jess says as I hug them both goodbye, promising to make more effort to connect.
I find myself searching for her again through the gallery, passing Clarisa walking around with an older couple that I assume to be her parents. She stops me an introduces us, pulling me into conversation with them for a few minutes. While listening to her father remark about different the art scene is compared to his day, I look up to see her already looking at me, across the room with Harry in another conversation. My heart skips a beat. As our eyes meet I catch a small smile on her face, one I return. Someone calls her attention in her group and she looks away, and I do too, fighting the smile on my face.
I do not see her again that night, and I don't stay much longer either, the time nearing twelve before I know it.
I can not stop thinking about her, not for a second.
I lay awake for at least an hour, not exactly annoyed at not being unable to drift off, rather elated, the moments from the night playing in my head. The first glimpse I got of her, standing with her back to me in her forest green coat. The way she moved amongst the art, the way the room blurred around her in my memories. The first time her eyes met mine. The first words she spoke, how her voice matched her in every way.
I had never been so interested and drawn to a woman before. Every tiny small thing. The way she walked. The movements of her dress around her hips under her coat, her waist, the way she walked like she had mastered femininity. The poised and graceful dance of her hands, of the way she moved. The smell of distant citrus cinnamon, Moroccan oil and candlewood that she somehow made feminine.
The smile she gave me. How I wanted to continue saying things that would make her smile. How I wanted to make her laugh so hard she cried, the kind that mixes with shreaks.
How I wanted to do so much more than just make her laugh. That I wanted the banter and the flirting that danced with our words to not stop. For us to allow the dance to get closer. To walk with her through the whole gallery, hear her speak about every piece. Have a drink together, let the conversation delve into things more than art. Take her for dinner, listen to her talk, for as long as she wanted to, as long as she wanted me to listen. I wanted to learn everything about her. Ask her every question I can think of. Be open to her until anything we want to share can only be done through a dance more intimate than the words we've spoken.
I pulled myself out of my thoughts sharply, my eyes snapping open. My heart is pounding, my breathing rapid. My underwear uncomfortably tight.
Once. I've met her once.
And shes the wife of my mentor.