Jan 31, 2004 22:30
There's something about 2 am I can't sleep through, so I got up, and grabbed the sheet from the floor where we'd kicked it.
I'd been painting earlier, carefully, stroke by stroke, and now, as I ran my fingers along the board, I could feel where each brush hair had touched. But there were bald patches, and their roughness made me nervous.
Both bottles had been emptied onto the plate. The paint sat inches above the ceramic rim, and wobbled unhappily at the floor below. I slipped my hands inside, and grabbed it with both hands, kneading it softly. I paused over the board, then dragged my palms down it's length; the color spreading to my elbows, grazing my stomach.
He was awake, and standing in the doorway. 'You're Not Wearing Anything.' He told me.
I crossed the room, and stood studying him for a moment. Then traced a single line of green down his cheek with my finger. And across his collarbone. And down past his chest. And.
A shower later there was no paint in my hair, or smeared down my back. His shoulders and thighs were clean. We kept the canvas, frantic hand prints and all.