COLD FINGER PAINT
It's cold and wet on my cheek. May's fingers covered in paint dance on my face as she creates a "masterpiece", as she said. I highly doubt that she could do anything beautiful with my face, but she's May Fairweather after all; anything she touches can blossom into something exquisite.
She washed her hands and is now dipping her fingers in a new color. I have no idea of what she's painting or what colors she's using, all I do is sit there and wait for her to be done. I don't even know how we ended up in this position; me sitting at the office desk and her finger painting my face. I feel the paint on my upper face where she first applied the paint start to dry as she starts to run her gentle fingers on my upper neck. I'm scared to swallow my saliva because I don't want to bother her in her painting.
I watch her put away all the paint buckets and wash her hands. She told me to stay seated until my whole face and neck have dried.
I walk towards the bathroom, apprehending the moment when I'll see the work of art. I feel her presence behind me.
She recreated the ocean on my face so well that I can always see the waves move. All the existing shades of blue are there, from powder blue to a very deep navy blue. It's stunningly beautiful, I must say. I don't ever want to wash this off.
She takes a picture of it. I look at it and realize how beautifully my green eyes blend in the painting.
She puts her hand on my face and traces a path starting from my hairline and that end at the tip of my chin with her dry and clean fingers.
She made me beautiful. Beautiful like her.
We are beautiful.
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My Girl (That Girl, #2)
Short StorySequel to 'That Girl' May's a tiny bit less different now. She still seems to always be in the spotlight and adored by all, but now I know who she is. About a week ago, I'd watch her from afar and admire her in all her splendor. Now, I can admire he...
