This is fiction. Wordy, cheesy, melodramatic fiction. Maybe I am a sappy romantic after all.
I will be in charge of my paintbrush today. The primed canvas smiles at me, daring me to do great things. My fingers itch. The rhythm of the music around me pulsates in my fingers and I begin.
At first, I have complete control. My fingers are still stiff and rigid like the grid I am filling in. My sketch is nearly exact and ready to be coaxed into life.
The music changes and my mind begins to wander. I remember this song. Its notes gently stroke my ears, the way she did. I can feel the small of my back ache, almost as if it had been touched. My rigid posture begins to melt and I swear I can smell her. Prairie flowers, clover and hay. Dust, sweat and that sweet smell of desire floating on the wild airy notes of our song.
My eyes close and I imagine her strong quick fingers playing in my hair, rhythmic but loose. The paintbrush falls. My eyes snap open and see a dripping purple gash where my neighbour’s grandmother was supposed to be. Then I notice in the background darting figures hidden in the foliage- jumping, embracing and …
Crap. I can’t cover over everything. I give up and let my brushes take control, guided by the music.
The music is now urgent and throbbing. The colours fly, illuminating the contours and limbs and torsos, twisting, thrashing; the aching, pounding music is now ebbing away. A new song.
My brushes softly caress the gentle curves of the newest figure, rising out from the background shapes – covering my carefully calculated sketch- with what is looking more and more like her. The music is dreamy, like the deep rose of her areoli, purple shadows pushing out erect nipples. I can’t stroke her with my fingers but my paintbrush fills in the space between us. Back and forth, up and down, around and around…
The music stops. The light is gone. Tomorrow I will start again with a fresh canvas. And I will know better than to listen to the music mix she made for me.