I see Lilla peaceful and clean. I see Lilla a wonder and light. I see her small and precious. I see her soft and wrapped in warmth.
Just watching. Admiring the picture in my bed.
Green lights of the alarm clock tell a story I’ve already read. Four in the morning. Sleepless. Hopeless. So still I sit at her side, watching, breath shallow. The clock ticks. My fingertip skates lightly down her arm, seeking bumps. I’m treated well. Given many.
Lilla shifts, rolling to her stomach. I want to press my mouth against the back of her skinny legs. Kiss just below the crease of her ass cheek. I pull the covers over her and exit my bedroom, quietly.
Or, so I thought.
Lost inside of the bristles sweeping over the blank page, suddenly I sense eyes. A shadow blocking the light gives her away. I don’t look. I keep working, trying to knock the vision inside of my head onto the canvas.
Sleepy warmth rests down beside me, legs tucked under her gentle frame. She smells like marshmallows and vanilla. Smokey from my smoking. Familiar because of my bed and shirt.
Lilla’s head rests on my back. Her voice is raspy and tired. Scratchy from the alcohol. Smoke.
“What are you drawing?”
I dig the bristles into the canvas, angrily.
“It hasn’t told me.”
She remains against me as I keep my hand moving, creating something and nothing. The warmth of her body so close and heavenly, calling to me. Twisting to seek her out, pull her into my arms so that she can linger in the comfort of my lap.
“Why aren’t you sleeping, Honey-girl?”
“I’m not very good at it.”
“Me either.”
Small fingers play with the crease of my arm. I watch her face as she runs her digits along the black ink, tracing the lines. A thin brush finds its way into my hand. The sleeve of my shirt she wears is pushed up, the tip replacing it as I scroll along her skin.
“My mom used to yell at me when I was little for coloring on my hands,” she gives away.
“What did you color?” I dip a new color and continue my design further down her arm.
“Nonsense,” she laughs sleepily, “mostly flowers.”
Her thin arm twists in my palm as I move the brush to her wrist, swirling an intricate pattern.
“What kind?” I choose another color.
“Crappy ones.”
Lilla smiles up at me, laying still as I use her for a human canvas, allowing me to do as I please. Briefly I pause, before pressing the tip to her skin, creating a rose on her hand. As I finish, she pulls her hand to her face, admiring what I’ve done.
“Pretty. Thank you.”
But, I have no words.
There’s just her face illuminated softly by a sixty watt light bulb in my make-shift studio. Frizzy locks that have tangled and kinked. Velvet cream skin pairing with warm brown eyes. Papers crinkle as I shift, sitting her up in my lap. Connecting our lips swiftly, needful.
A mouth on fire, encouraged by a heart beating its way slowly back to life. Igniting under borrowed cotton, it beats against my own. Sandwiched together. Kinked curls threaded between my rough fingers. Yanking with a playful desire to be more to her than a sad reflection of regret. I want Lilla to look into my eyes and find a new world. See herself through my lens. Her own truth.
A tug of my borrowed shirt. A casting to the wayside where useless things belong.
A roll. A flip. Softly onto her back. Same as before, but vastly different. Her eyes are awake. Blood slightly refreshed. Foolish desire knocked to the curb—at least—the desire to do things under the guise of a sloppy drinker.
This is Lilla. I see her. She’s nervous while calm. She’s curious and needful.
Two brushes fist into my hand.
The papers are scattered, each one an individual scrap, yet when captured under her, collectively become one. How poetically perfect for this moment. Starting at her head, I trace around her silhouette. Pausing when I reach a pulse point. Pressing my lips along her skin. The inside of her neck. Crease of her elbow. Wrist. Her left side, working my way along her right.
I watch her chest rise, eyes close, reopen. Flutter to find me.
The brushes jerk in my hand, going from the paper to her chest, causing her to jump from the tickle. Warm smiles tug at my heart strings. A thick red heart is painted over her quick thumps. I toss the fucking paint brushes behind me and hover over her.
“Such a beautiful melody you’re playing, Lilla.”
I witness the world explode behind my eyelids as she pulls me to her mouth. A wilted flower standing tall as our forms meld. This is what I’ve been looking for. These are the feelings I want to be stirred within the depths of myself. A self I know without fully knowing. She could be anyone. I could have anyone under me. I want so few. I find nothing.
But Lilla … soft repose wrapped in thorn wings.
A sea at unease and I, the dinghy.
I want it.
I want to be a part of her storm.
I want the bitter on her sweet tongue. The sadness in her bright eyes. The silence in her screaming mind. The enigma that is really quite simple. A complicated happiness.
I want to knock her love out.
I want to pull it from her chest while it’s beating fervently and slapped for doing so. To play. To rumble. Truth and lies. Ugly sin and the prettiest fucking thing I have ever seen.
Satin cream perfection along her thighs. I dig my mouth into the crook of her neck, sliding my arms under her back, ass, everywhere. She crushes my fingers to the floor as she writhes, finding pleasure in my groping.
I want to knock her off the road of routine and complacency and make her motherfucking squirm in discomfort.
I want her to look at the scene unfolding around her and carry me home. The light to burn her eyes and paint my face over her husband’s blank stare.

 

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