We all need someone to look at us. We can be divided into four categories according to the kind of look we wish to live under. …Then there is the third category, the category of people who need to be constantly before the eyes of the person they love. Their situation is as dangerous as the situation of people in the first category. One day the eyes of their beloved will close, and the room will go dark. - Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
The other side of the bed felt empty. Still with closed eyes, Louis extended his hand to reach for something in the space next to him. His arms whisked right and left, as if he was groping in the dark. No, she's not here. Slowly, his eyelids flitted open and indeed, there was nothing there but a rumpled piece of white sheet. He groaned as he moved to his side and was surprised to see her smiling at him.
"Turn around." She said. "I finally had a clear view of your backside, so turn around."
He looked at her for a moment and felt himself flushed seeing raw beauty in front of him. She was naked down to her stomach, her lower extremities hidden by a red piece of cloth coiling around her hips. She was sitting on a stool with a paintbrush in hand. In front of her was a huge canvas and he could only guess what she was doing.
"Louis." The way she mentioned his name always sounded different to him. It was a little threatening and persuasive, yet it was like melody to his ears.
But no, he didn't want to turn around. He wanted her to look at him.