The Artists


He sits and looks at her, on his face sleep still falls.  “I take it black,” he says.
She nods then pours.  “Why even have it if you can’t sweeten it up like a desert?”
“I like it black,” he says.  She pushes the cup at him…it slides smoothly,
like on ice and lands by his hand, not spilling a drop.

“That was amazing,” he says.

“You should see me cook an egg.”


His eyes are wide….”Turn a bit to the left…no, my left…”

She moves, her breast peaks in the sun.

He waits, brush in hand….”Turn a bit more, just a smit…”

“Smit is not a word.”   She moves again.

“Good,” he says.  “Now open your legs a little more…”
“I’ll look like a whore.”
“I’m not even painting.  How do you know how you’ll look?”
She makes a face….doesn’t move.
“Fine,” he says.  “It is finished.”

“Fuck you.”   She gets up and dresses.


The sun sets, red and purple and pink.  She mixes paints for him.  He lies on the floor observing the cracks of the ceiling, how they radiate from the chandelier’s base, spokes of a wheel, he thinks.

She mixes paints for him.

“We did good work today,” he says.


In the moonlight
she crawls in his bed.
Why she can’t resist him.
She fondles him softly in his sleep.
Then climbs on top of him.

“Are you done with the paints, girl?”
he asks, his eyes closed.

“Mmm,” she says.

“When you are done…make me that egg.”


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