The Artists

Morning

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.”

Noon

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.

Evening

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.

Midnight

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.”

Advertisements

Any thoughts?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s