What Lies Beneath
The late afternoon sun infused the room with the warm glow typical of an autumn sunset. Dust motes danced in the air; a happy, swirling waltz in the sun before drifting earthbound to land on the cluttered surfaces of the studio. Grayscale charcoal sketches vied with vibrant oil paintings for pride of place on the shelves and tabletops around the room. Brushes and paints and pencils filled baskets and glasses and pots and whatever would contain them. In the air was the unmistakable fragrance of linseed oil, bergamot and lavender, and something else, indescribable but immediately recognizable. On the floor in the center of the room, the lovers slept entangled in the canvas and each other
Genevieve awoke to the unpleasant sensation of something sharp poking her in the back. Experience told her it was one of her larger brushes. She sighed; why did concerns of comfort always have to give way in the heat of passion? The large brown leather sofa was a mere three feet away. Carefully reaching behind her, she extricated the offending item and put it to better use, dragging the soft bristles along the spine of her prone lover.
"Time to wake up, mon cher." No response. Genevieve dabbed the brush in the dimples at the base of the spine. She gasped when she felt a pair of soft lips surround her nipple.
"Must we?" The voice mumbled petulantly around its plaything.
"Yes. Lucien will be home soon."
"You should send that boy to school." Genevieve shivered a bit at the gentle application of teeth to her now-sensitive bud.
"You sound like Thomas." That did it; warm lips were replaced by cold air.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you that it's bad manners to speak to your lover about your husband?"
"Would you perhaps prefer that I speak to my husband about my lover?"
"Only if I can be there to watch you when you do." A pause. "He doesn't deserve you."
Genevieve sighed and stared up at the ceiling. And I don't deserve him. Tiny flecks of gold twinkled like stars in the night. The heaven of her handiwork.
"Thomas is a good man, and I will not have you speaking ill of him." Genevieve suddenly sat upright, unceremoniously dumping her paramour onto the floor. "And I love him," she added, thereby hopefully cutting off any further argument. They both began to gather their clothing, haphazardly discarded about the room, and dressed in a wounded silence.
Minutes passed. Genevieve felt her waist encircled by a pair of gloved hands, and a lingering kiss was gently placed behind her ear. "Fine. Love the Philistine. Just promise to love me as well."
Turning slowly, Genevieve reached out to wipe away a smudge of crimson paint off an unsuspecting nose. She smiled in that enigmatic way that Agnes, and everyone else who knew her, loved. "I promise," she whispered.
Agnes accepted the lie with good grace. Love made a person believe all sorts of things. On her way out the door she stopped to admire her finished portrait.
"No one will ever guess what is underneath," boasted Genevieve, her hand ghosting over the canvas.
Agnes looked at the woman she loved more than life itself. "No, I don't suppose they will."