Muse

Why did you paint her that way? That suggestive look in her eyes, that liquid honey intensity, the way she leans forwards, calling you to her, inviting you in. The blush of her cheeks, and the curl of her hair, the colours of caramel and toasted almonds.

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Why do you smile at her the way you do? When I see you see her, I freeze inside. The way her eyes light up – the gold of your paintbrush all brought to life – and the way your eyes mirror hers as she walks into the room. That red jacket, the sharp cut, and the hug of those soft, sultry jeans. I feel myself shrink and fade.

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“Just my muse,” you say to me. “She’s inspiration, she’s art. She’ll never be my wife.”

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It’s a fine thing being a wife. I have the ring, and the house, the place beside you in bed. I know that I get to go to the gallery openings, the exhibitions, the dinners, all on your arm, and in designer dresses, with my head held high, with diamonds around my neck if I want them. The camera flashes catch in the diamonds. Isn’t that something? But so many nights the bed is empty, the night is silent. I know you’re out there; I know you’re finding new ways to capture that smile, those eyes, that silk body. I imagine your hands moving over it, not just your brush. Have you gone that far?

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There’s a painting I love, here in the house. She’s a woman, a girl really, and her hair is dark, short, clinging around her cheeks, pointing inwards towards her chin.  Her eyes are a mix of green and tan, some freckles touch her cheeks. She’s dressed in cream, a scarf tied around her neck, a winter sunset at her back.

I try to find her sometimes in the mirror, beneath the years. There are glimpses, just enough to tell me that she was real.

But I know you’ll never paint her again.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work.