His jaw hung open as she listed all the artists she had been with. “See, I’m a bit of an art groupie. I love artists and they love me.”
He could certainly see why. With a head of curly honey-toned ringlets, thick long lashes that shielded eyes alive with mischief, her elegant, flawless nose, the smattering of freckles on her olive skin. She was definitely interesting. His eyes continued to trail her body; she had noticed and was doing a twirl for him, initiating a conversation between the two bodies where words could not suffice.
She was like a song; her highs and lows, the dips and curves were like the perfect composition and his heart seemed to reach the crescendo when he took in the wonder that was her bottom. The orbs of flesh that jutted out of her back, so out of sync with the rest of her body that it looked like it belonged on another person. Holy mounds that existed out of a deep profundity. They definitely did not belong on this white woman. And yet it drove him mad with desire. He wanted to feel it, if only to be sure of his own mind.
She snapped him out of his reverie with her high, tinkling laugh.
“Not bad, eh?”
Not bad? She was fucking perfect was what he wanted to say. Before he could make the statement, she was off, excusing herself to use the bathroom. She had the walk of a woman who lived her entire life a spectacle. A matter of confusion to lesser minds.
Her buttocks rotated rather then swayed. Bounced in an out of rhythm. Her hips and legs doing a well-practiced dance with each step she took. It was breathtaking to watch.
The Callypygian strut.
She was an artist’s dream. She was the kind of woman you wrote poems for, the kind you wrote stories about, the kind you sang songs for, the kind you photographed, the kind you painted. The kind you died for and the sum of all living. All these years he had toiled in vain. She was all there was. All there ever would be.
He decided there and then that he had found his purpose. His magnum opus. He would paint her. Submit his will, his hands, his craft in devotion to her. He would inhale her essence. Eyes, the lips, the breasts. They would become part of him and he part of them.
She was the kind of woman who would ruin a man. The kind that men couldn’t help falling in love with. The kind who was flighty, who packed her belongings and took off once she got bored.
He pushed the thoughts out of his mind. She was walking towards him.. He drank in her vision. The whole bar was watching. The stars were aligned.
“You want to take me home, don’t you, John?” He nodded weakly, spellbound by her gaze. Her accent had changed from something slightly French to a bit more Italian. He assumed it was the result of living and traveling all over. Either way, he didn’t care. Every subtle change he noticed in her, every little detail in her appearance or demeanor he had not sensed before, only served to place him further under her spell.
And so when she stood and led him to his car, parked two streets away, he wondered not how a woman he’d met at a gallery two hours ago knew where he’d parked his car that morning. Just before they left the bar he was sure he had felt all the eyes in the room on his back, but when he looked over, he saw nothing.
On the ride over to the flat in Trocadero his parents had gifted him after graduating art school top of his class, he began to wonder why this French goddess would choose him of all the artists who showcased at the gallery, why she had paid him such special interest, following his career all the way from Nigeria.
Any other day, he would doubt her intentions, but all he wanted was to make her immortal with his brush. He was sure that even the sight of her bare skin would transport him to paradise. But to actually paint it…. he would see God.
Inside his apartment, her clothing seemed to melt off her skin before his very eyes. She was dancing, no, making love to every space of his apartment. She moved to the music in her head that somehow, he could also hear, chasing her with his camera, capturing and capturing, her legs in the air, her feet gliding over the piano, her form sliding down the curtains. She was everywhere and nowhere at once. She was dizzying and electrifying. Fire.
His heart was pounding and he was laughing harder than he ever had before. She was Valkyrie, she was all the Muses, she was Athena, and Aphrodite, Hera and Persephone, his genius, his Daemon, she was Gaia, she was Yemoja, she was Cleopatra and he was the Father of Rome, here. They were empires.His entire body was drowning. He was thirsty with want. He needed her.
He was so exhilarated from her that he couldn’t breathe but breathing was not required. Not in this dance. He grabbed his easel and began to sketch. She continued to saunter around the flat, like a spirit. She spun and spun until all he saw was a vision of white flesh and brown hair, almost white in the room’s light. A disciple of Selene and he was mesmerized.
He painted like he had never done before. With his mind and his heart, bones and veins, his eyes never leaving her, his hands racing across the canvass like children in a park. He felt her arms around him, but she was still dancing in front of him. Still everywhere.
“Enough, child”, came the watery voice at his ear. His hands froze at his sides, caked in red ink.
His eyes looked up ahead and he saw nothing but the lights of the twinkling Eiffel reflected on his bleached floors as he sank to his knees. Pain shooting out of every pore.
His back lay on the ground as he looked up into the gleaming eyes of the figure before him. Her features blurred as he sipped quickly into a hot darkness. This was how it was supposed to be. They had shared an eternity. Birthed a civilization.When life left him, it was as the flutter of a page on a stormy day.
Ten minutes later, a young woman exited a Trocadero flat with a large, red painting.
Another masterpiece. Another soul.@Anee_Uche
March 7, 2014
The Callypygian strut