It started with sunsets, streaks of pastels floating above crashing ocean waves. Seemed simple enough based on the YouTube videos for beginning painters that she had found. The view off the back deck of their cottage was her inspiration and for the first several months she found herself sitting in a chair just off the deck at sunset, facing the beach, painting simple strokes of color across the blank canvas before her. As time went on, she felt she mastered blending the pastels around the sun and the movement of the ocean waves with her small paintbrushes and watercolors.
One evening she turned around and tried to paint the cottage, but it didn't go so well. Andy brought home a sketch pad and pencils the next day after his trip into town, suggesting she sketch the cottage first before attempting to paint it. He even found a few online videos about drawing and painting buildings to help her out. It was little things like that that kept her going since they couldn't be intimate with each other. He always found ways to let her know he loved her besides telling her. To some it may seem insignificant but to her it was the world. Actions speak louder than words, and when you can't even properly kiss the person you love for fear of it damaging your health, these small gestures and words of encouragement help fill the missing piece of one's heart.
She had begun taking pictures, first of the beach, then the sunset, then the areas around their cottage that were well within her doctor approved walking perimeter. Occasionally she snapped a few of Andy, some he didn't know about. He had let his hair grow long not needing to maintain a professional appearance any longer. She found the relaxed disheveled look quite handsome on him, but she never told him for fear he'd go back to a crew cut so that it would be less stressful on her heart. That hair needs to stay long she had decided, because when she did eventually get the green light from the doctor to be intimate with her husband, she planned to knot her fingers in that glorious mane on her silver fox.
Two weeks ago the doctor relaxed the restrictions placed on her, and she and Andy could resume a physical relationship, provided he did all the work. It had become a code word for them – if Sharon said she had work for Andy, or he asked if she had work for him to do, it meant they were going to make love. Rusty was bewildered one evening during a video chat with Sharon when Andy sauntered into the room and asked her if there was work to be done. She had hummed and replied, "There's always work to be done, Andy."
"I didn't think either one of you were working. And, Mom, you shouldn't be working at all!" Rusty had exclaimed.
"Hey, kid, your mother and I have to go. She has lots of work for me to do. Talk to you later," Andy said smiling into the camera before Sharon blew Rusty a kiss and abruptly ended the call.
Rusty had sat in front of his computer dumbfounded. What work could two retired people living on the beach possibly have to do?
"Best job I've ever had, babe," Andy had said before carrying Sharon to their bed, something he enjoyed doing since it always made her happy, the warm rich tone of her laugh always music to his ears.
Tonight, she sits with a picture of him clipped to the easel in front of her, a large sketchpad in her lap with the pencils spread out on the end table next to her. After watching some online videos about sketching portraits, she had decided to expand her repertoire and attempt to sketch Andy. This photo is a particular favorite of hers, taken just a few nights ago without his knowledge. He's leaning against a column on the back deck, shirtless, and the photo is from the waist up. His hair is slightly tousled from the breeze off the ocean and one hand is resting on his waist while the other is against the pole above his head. His expression appears like he's reflecting on something profound, or maybe he was just trying to figure out if they needed more carrot juice from the store. It doesn't matter, she loves the photo, but not nearly as much as the man inside of it.
She begins by tracing an outline of his body, using the image in the photo to guide her hand, and her memories of him above her when they make love. The dip over his left hip that her thigh fits in just perfectly when she wraps her legs around him right before he tenderly joins with her. The hairs that trail down from his navel that tickle against her lower abdomen as he gently thrusts in and out of her. Her fingers blur the edges in places creating contours of his body, including the small pouch of a stomach that he frets over but that she adores, perfectly imperfect, perfectly Andy.
The patch of skin between his hip and his navel is silky smooth, a place she has stroked with her fingertips many times, marveling at how he can be so soft yet so masculine just inches away. It's the perfect place to leave soft kisses and her mark, a desire that has been suppressed for the time being but will happen again soon. The pads of her fingers rub that very spot on the sketch, and the heat from the memory of the last time she visited him there with her lips brings a smile to her face. It's the place she loves to linger, glancing up at him as she draws out the moment before her lips travel further down his body. Soon, Andy. Soon.
The pencil moves upward to his chest, which contains the very essence of Andy - his heart. "My heart beats for you," he told her a few weeks ago and of that she has no doubt. How else can she explain his dedication to her? It's unfortunate that it took well into the golden years of her life to discover such a man, and what love truly can be. He feels the same way. They were two wandering souls that accidentally stumbled into each other's paths, so jaded from previous relationships they couldn't recognize what they were to each other until their children pushed the issue. Every beat of their hearts is another second with each other, the irony of both of their ailments not lost on either one of them - after finally finding the person they love unconditionally, they must refrain from expressing that love for fear of Sharon's heart overloading. How miserable is that? It would be easy to be resentful, but rather than wallow in self-pity, they both choose to see the bright side. They are alive, they can work toward better health, and they can spend this time exploring what makes them happy. They've decided to view it as a gift, one that forces them to discover who they are and what they truly mean to each other, a gift that not many are afforded until it's too late.
He has more muscle definition now, working out at a local gym occasionally per his doctor's orders, and her fingers glide along her sketch tracing his pectorals, in a similar manner to when they are in bed together. She loves touching him and wonders how she ever kept her hands to herself for eleven months. She's determined to make up for that lost time and whenever he is close by, her hands have a way of finding places to caress him, hold onto him, sometimes drawing mindless patterns on his skin with her fingertips. When he carries her to their bed, she assumes it's because he's showing off his stronger shoulders and arms.
Her focus switches to his hands. The fingers of her left-hand glide along her lips as she drafts the outline of his hand, recalling how he cradled her jaw two nights ago and traced her lips with his thumb. Sometimes he brushes the backs of his fingers against her cheek before kissing her, other times when they cuddle on the sofa, he lets his fingers wander up and down her arm. Occasionally she pulls his palm to her face, kissing it, then nuzzling it while her eyes are closed. His hands are warm, strong, gentle, and sensual in the way he touches her.
She moves on to his lips next, drawing in a deep breath as she recalls how he has used his lips to map her entire body over the past few weeks. He knows when to brush soft kisses on her skin, then strengthen to a nibble, applying the right amount of pressure in all the right places. One of her favorite things to do is kiss him, then pull back to observe the sparkle in his kind eyes, then move in for a deeper kiss, drawing his lower lip into her mouth. It always elicits a groan from him.
"Hey, Sharon," Andy says walking into the living room from the bedroom. "What are you working on?" he asks when she quickly closes her sketch pad and fumbles at the photo of him pinned to the easel. "Is that a picture of me? Can I see it?"
"Yeh, Andy, I took a few that you didn't know about. Here," she says holding it out to him with a small smile on her face.
"Would you look at that. I kind of look like some old California surfer dude," he laughs.
He's right, he looks like a surfer dude and that realization makes her giggle.
"Do you think I should cut my hair?" he asks, running his hand through it demonstrating its length.
"No, Andy, please don't. I LOVE your hair long."
"You do? You don't think I look like a bum?"
"Not at all. And when you don't bother to shave for a few days, well…I ,uh…let's just say I spend a lot of time staring at you and fantasizing."
He slides onto the sofa next to her, placing his arm around her shoulders. "So, you're sketching me from that picture? Can I take a look?"
"It's my first attempt at a portrait, and I'm not done yet," she wrinkles her nose, placing her hands over the closed sketch pad. "I need to do some more research before I can finish."
"What kind of research?" he asks, genuinely curious.
Her coy little glance at him precedes her words. "The kind that requires some work on your part."
"Ahhh," he says picking up on her hint, pulling her face to his. "I think I better get started on that right away."
