A Work of Art

His eyes flickered, and with a swift scan of the room he realised he wasn’t at home. He was comfortable though, and under no illusion that he wasn’t exactly where he was supposed to be. His eyelids twitched as they became accustomed to morning and the slim ray of sunshine that was peeking around the corner of a crack in the curtain. The room was hot and stuffy; he could feel the perspiration that swamped his legs beneath the duvet as though it had welded them together, the thick cover a futile and unnecessary overnight companion.

He looked to his left towards the girl he was sharing a bed with. Though he was now wide awake she continued to sleep soundly. As she laid there so calm, he couldn’t help but find himself utterly enamoured by her; entranced by her serenity and mesmerised by every timid breath that left her lips. She was facing away from him, the pearls of sudation dancing on her skin as he watched over her.

He ran the backs of his fingers down her spine, his index finger climbing and falling as it flowed over her protruding vertebrae. He was delicate so as not to disturb and wake her from her slumber. He was glad she slept for were she awake he would have been compelled to explain the irrepressible smile that adorned his face, his imagination fathoming, without difficulty, the notion that this smile was now an eternal feature, for as he lay beside her he could think of no emotion or happening that was powerful enough to suppress it; the reason for this ecstasy lay right before his eyes.

His gaze averted, and he began to study the room and the immense paintings that hung from the walls. He knew she loved to paint yet he was taken aback by the detail that enriched each canvas. It was at times like this that he wished he’d paid more attention to his art teacher at school. Ms. Booth would talk vehemently about the likes of Picasso and his stroke style, or Pollock and his ability to tell vibrant stories through dripping and pouring, yet the only stories he had cared for then were those emanating from the pages of a Thomas Hardy paperback.

At dinner, the conversation had shifted early to her enthusiasm for art and in an instant he could feel the euphoria flowing through her as she described the fluidity of Monet’s brushwork and the evocation it flew her back to. Her obsession with art matched his love of literature and for what seemed like hours they divulged into the world of paintings, books, and music. The requited admiration for the other’s fervour served only to intensify their attraction and it wasn’t long before the polite and chivalrous smiles that had initiated the evening were replaced by playful and coquettish grins.

This was the catalyst for myriad topics of conversation that seemed to exhaust every avenue that existed. Their colloquy circled for a while, however landed safely on their mutual love of travel, and they wholly agreed that having the freedom to learn and migrate, all while indulging in their respective arts, was the key to unlocking ardent happiness. In fact, it was a yearning they both suffered from and were it not for the financial harness that had hitherto constrained them, they each confessed they would not have been sitting at that table together, in that moment.

She revealed that her heart belonged in South America and that as soon as she had the fiscal means to do so, wished to leave for the shores of Tierra del Fuego in Argentina, with the sole aim of meandering her way up through the continent, painting every landscape her hands would let her, until she produced a portrait so meaningful that it might one day hold its own in a room containing The Birth of Venus or The Persistence of Memory. The ordinary would consider these heights almost unattainable, yet she was no ordinary girl. She was herself a work of art.

She had dressed for the evening cunningly, in a light, flowery sundress and flats, for the weather was tame and the cloudless sky promised a pleasant climate. She was interested to see whether she would be offered his jacket when the temperature would inevitably fall towards the later evening, an important measure of the man she hoped he would be.

His pensivity was interrupted as he discerned that of all the clothes that were inconveniently scattered in each corner of the room, he blamed their desire and impatience for that, his jacket was nowhere among them. Apprehension set in, and as carefully and quickly as he could, he threw on his boxers and t-shirt, and left the room to go in search of it. The flat was small and he suspected there were only few places it could be.

Though he remembered clearly the major adventures of the night before, the wine consumed seemed to have eliminated the minor fragments of the night his brain considered expendable, the whereabouts of his jacket being one of them. It wasn’t the jacket that was the main concern, but rather a little black notebook he carried with him everywhere he went, which was hidden away in the inside pocket. It was all a cahier, journal, and anthology rolled into one, and contained what he considered his most valuable thoughts and ideas of the past two months.

The kitchen and living room were cleared of kidnap, and resigned to having misplaced it in the restaurant or bar, he crossed the hallway to the toilet. It was a solemn and dejected piss that followed, and he was grateful to be distracted by the quandary of whether to flush the toilet, for he feared waking his inamorata and hampering their new-found romance with thoughts of his now-empty bladder. He took the risk and flushed.

He stepped out of the bathroom and despite having yielded to its disappearance, was confronted with the sight of a tall coat rack, hanging off the left hook a denim jacket. He must not have seen her take it off. He dived at once for the inside pocket and pulled out a small black notebook, filled with pages and pages of arbitrary musings and messages that only he could decipher meaning from. A short sigh ensued.

Re-entering the bedroom, he sat down at her desk and began to write. He continued to write for what could have been hours, days, weeks, months, it was all the same to him right now; all that mattered were the words he wrote and the girl on the bed to his left. On no other occasion had his hand felt so free and willing. Verses soared through his arm faster than he was able to record them, line after line of electrifying lyricism, all inspired by the one who laid there still, so soft and unaware of the impact she had had, the flame she had ignited.

He did eventually tire, and with his mind momentarily emptied he remembered that time did exist and that his parents were visiting him today. They would be outside his door in less than an hour. The hands on his watch were moving faster than he needed them to as he slipped his little black book away, collected the remainder of his clothes, and crept out of the room once again, leaving a note on a small piece of paper on the pillow as he left.

He would have skipped all the way home if only he could have afforded the time to do so. The air was fresh and rich, and everyone seemed to smile as he glided past them. The few clouds that populated the sky were the purest shade of white he had ever seen, and for the first time in his life he noted how well the azure-blue background complimented the scene.

As he arrived home he threw open his front door, ignored the letter that lay flat on the welcome mat in the hallway, and scrambled to the bathroom to shower, pausing only to greet his loyal spaniel on the way up the stairs. Once fresh, he hurried to make it look as though at least some elements of his life were intact before his parents walked through the door, and with five minutes to spare had tidied the flat and ordered himself in a somewhat presentable fashion. There was no evidence to suggest he was a dirty stop-out. He hung his jacket on the left hook of the coat rack, fed his canine friend, and proceeded towards the letter that had waited so patiently to be opened.

He considered the previous sixteen hours to be as dream-like as he’d ever experienced, and as he slid the letter out of its envelope, and began to read its contents, it dawned on him that the dream was far from culminating just yet. Standing in the hallway, he read the letter five times over, taking more and more care over each word as he did so. He had to sit down to read it again. It was signed by his agent and informed him that a publisher had come forward and wished to print the manuscript of his maiden novel. The letter housed details of the contract they were offering, which included an initial advance of $20,000.

He pinched his arm in classic fashion and proceeded to read the letter over and over and over again, for he feared it may crumble away any second, along with the rest of this fantasy world he seemed to have fallen into. And despite holding his lifelong dream in his hands before him, his thoughts remained focused solely on her, as he realised the opportunity that had been gifted to them; the allures and pleasures of South America had never felt so real.

His reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door.