The Painter and the Nude Art Model
Fiction
I walked into my favourite room.
It was dark with two gold lamps on opposing corners.
A woman sat under a lamp, naked. Her figure cast a shadow on the wall behind.
Our eyes met. She smirked. Cast her eyes away.
I sat down and opened my paint box. I was late. The other artists didn’t notice. They were already in the flow state of creation. A fire could start in the room and they would barely notice. Caught in a trance. Consumed by their craft.
The nude model was beautiful. Creases on her hips, scar lines across her lower belly showed she was also a mother, or grew a human at some point.
My paintbrush stroked across the blank page slow at first, curious, exploring a new body for the first time.
As time passed my confidence grew. Strong calves, thin rolls of belly, broad shoulders, birthmark wrapped around her collarbone. I fell in love with her natural figure.
When it was over I felt sweaty and satisfied.
The woman stood and her body took on new shapes. Her breasts fell low and full like bell bottles. Her belly smoothed out. Her birthmark remained the same. She watched me watch her walk. Her hips rocked with each step. She looked at all the art and paused on each one.
I put away my paint box and stood to leave.
“You didn’t paint my face. Why?”
I pretended not to hear.
She touched my arm. I noticed her small hands, nails trimmed short. “Excuse me?”
I smiled at her. “Yes?”
She removed contact. “The other models told me about you. They didn’t mention your beauty. Why don’t you model?”
I laughed. “Never. I paint, that’s all.”
She shook her head. Big gold hoops on her lobes lit up specks of gold in her hazel eyes. “Why didn’t you paint my face? Yours is so beautiful.”
Lies, I thought. “You don’t need to — I know I’m not — I have to go now.”
I tucked my paint box under my arm and fled the room.
