My Love

I silently move upstairs, drawn to the sound of running water from the bathroom where you’re preparing for New Year’s Eve. It will be an evening like many others: just you, your art, and one of your more than happy to oblige models. I suppose doing what you do best is a fine way to end a year and begin anew. Won’t it be the same for me, after all? There’s a bright blue towel waiting for you on the rack. I can hear you mutter to yourself in a sing-song voice. Steam rises and the mirror is cloudy. If I so desired I could trace my name on the glass or come up with a cryptic message for you to ponder. No, I shall leave this scene undisturbed. I’m content to observe and bask in your presence, for now.  

You come out dripping all over the marble floor and run your hand over the mirror. There you are, my love. You dry yourself and lean over the sink to inspect the dark marks under your eyes – those piercing hazel eyes that called out to me without you knowing – and to make sure that your facial hair is still sharply trimmed. You don’t sleep much at night, twisting and turning until morning comes; lost in reveries of new faces and postures you can draw while I kneel beside you and whisper in your ear. What becomes of us when passion drives us, my beauty? Your shoulder-length curly black hair is still slick and half-wet. It will revert to its naturally messy state soon. You never bother with combing much and let it fall where it may. 

You walk downstairs to your cherished wines and pull a bottle from the wall. Red Burgundy, of course, to match your favourite colour. I was never much of a wine drinker. For you it’s a life-preserving force. That, and the constant drive to capture fleeting moments in pencil and paint. I drift into your studio where I can spend some time in the company of your subjects. They all share the same look – somewhere between curiosity and excitement – that makes your portraits sell so well. Do you fantasise about what you’ll do to them after your work is done, when you tell them they can finally move and they’re so grateful they will do anything for you? They are all so slender, so slight. That wasn’t me, when I could still fill a space. I was strong and proud of my curves and forceful gestures that commanded attention. Now I’m little more than a suggestion.

One of your mood-setting records is playing in the living room. A string quartet, as usual. Your record collection is extensive. It’s all vinyl, all the time, my sweetheart, isn’t it? You are so enamoured with these relics. Clearly you are not the only one. I wonder when everyone will finally let the past die instead of having it linger in this half-life.  But then where would that leave me? Why do I dwell on this? If this pleases you, then it pleases me too. If only I could dance with you before we have our final moment. We could give shape to great crescent moons on the floor with our shuffling feet until we collapse in giddy exhaustion. I don’t feel tired any more. I don’t feel much of anything, most of the time. 

There’s a knock at the door. There she is, looking flushed at your immediate attention. Have some wine, you say, have a seat. You talk more until she’s fully comfortable. Your stare never leaves her face, never wanders off into uncertainty. You don’t stammer. This is you in your element. You next move into the studio where you take your place – a wooden stool, old-fashioned to the end – and begin to work as she arranges herself to fit your vision. I can never have enough of the feverish way in which you draw. If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder how it’s possible to end up with something so delicate, so exquisitely observed, when your brushstrokes seem so careless. You attack the canvas as if it’s a wild animal you aim to hurt into submission. Your brow is furrowed and you are lost in angry sweeps while your subject slightly shakes and takes care to remain motionless. It’s always just an outline at first. Just a glimmer of the final features in your initial sketch on the first and only time they pose for you. The most important detail is the inquiring and enthused look of the willing collaborator. When the first stage of the drawing is ready you have no more need of a live subject for the coming weeks and months it takes you to complete your work. Then it’s just a matter of relying on memory and imagination to fill in the blanks. 

I’m looking out the window as your work nears its end. The stars are coming out and it will be a clear night. The crowds on the streets are warming up to their revelries. Soon there will be fireworks and well-wishing and strangers kissing and a burst of excitement and hope for change before the old insecurities and fears come creeping back. You are done. You wipe the paint from your fingers and face. You smile at her and tell her to go ahead and stretch and help herself to more wine. Should I leave the room? I know what will most likely follow this scene. Some don’t stay but most do. Most of them accept the wine and laugh with you into the early morning hours when they share your bed. I decide to watch. I won’t get another chance. We have come a long way together, you and I, and tomorrow we shall finally consummate our love. You can have your fun in the meantime. 

Your bodies are entwined and you’re sweating and moaning in unison. You both seem distracted. Not an unusual occurrence. She must still be wondering what her painting will look like when it’s finished, and you? Are you waiting for me, my dearest? Is nothing else going to be enough?  I could reach out and touch your slippery forms, but I want you all to myself when the time comes. I refrain from interfering and it’s all over. You finally look at each other again briefly before sleep overcomes you. I wait. You wake up before she does, as always. I follow you into the kitchen. You grab a knife and start making breakfast. She soon joins you and following the briefest of exchanges she takes her coat and walks out the door, leaving your life for good, just the way you like it. 

I wander back into the studio and admire her outline. The paint is fresh and the day is bright. You’re back in the bedroom, sleeping lightly. I let you sleep. I remember a different, gloomier New Year’s Day when I first saw you, when you brooded over yet another unfinished portrait. You drank too much back then in a protest against your self-perceived mediocrity. Then I showed up and everything changed. I think about all the days and nights we spent together in our house while I watched you follow those visions I inspired that wouldn’t leave you until they were given substance. I will never tire of seeing someone wrestle their art out of the void with my incitement until there’s something new in the world.

The time has come for us to meet. You are awake and unfocused until I enter the room. You look straight at me. You don’t see me yet but you can feel I’m here, don’t you? I’m now standing as close as I can get. You still look puzzled. Slowly, steadily, your expression changes into one of awareness. Is this a shape you can discern? Is it a benevolent Ghost of Christmas Past or Present? Is it your muse come to bid you farewell and leave you to attempt to find inspiration elsewhere? Not quite. I have one last thing to ask of you.

I bridge the gap between us and take your hands in mine. There’s only time for one quick gasp before your jaws lock shut. Your lower lip is caught between your teeth and the blood begins to pour. You violently convulse and try to shout but I won’t let you, not yet. All you can do is whimper and groan as your eyes grow wider and wilder until they burst in a thick stream that lands on your chest and mingles with your blood. Their ruined remnants slide down your pretty cheekbones. You can open your mouth now. I shall allow it. I want to hear you. You let out a fierce, desperate scream that turns into a gurgle. You carry on until there’s nothing more than a rasp coming out of your bruised throat. I adore the sounds my beloved protégés make when I show them the cost of their creations. Each one of you sounds different though you’ve all been united in ecstatic agony. And there it is. The stain spreading between your legs as you try in vain to voice your pain and pleasure. Your joints begin to shift and break and shards of bone tear through your skin at odd angles. I won’t let go. I’m with you till the end, my precious prince. You’re still alive yet barely recognisable as a human being now. Our bond is complete. You may go. What’s left of your flesh melts from your bones and they in turn dissolve into dust. 

I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Bathed in soft morning light, I am sated and solid, if only for a little while. I can still smell you and feel you on my tongue. Soon, all feeling will drain once more and I’ll be on my way. They will look for you but there’ll be nothing left to find and the mystery will become a part of your legacy. You’ve given all you can and I thank you. Goodbye, my darling. 

There’s a long pause of blissful darkness. Is this it? Will the flickering embers of my persistence finally fade? Not this time. I find myself looking at a polished mahogany cabinet in a new room in a new house. My new house. I can hear music coming from outside. From a nearby terrace I spot a group of friends serenading the first evening of the new year on the steps below. One of them looks back and calls out a name that stirs something inside me. Your name. 

I head back inside to start my search. Before too long I find you, perched on the living room’s couch with a violin in your arms. I hover nearby and listen as you tentatively practise. You could be formidable if you didn’t falter so much. You hesitate too often, wincing at the sounds you make. You want to join the others but you don’t feel ready, do you? You need me. I look down at your round face, soft blond hair and pale green eyes. There’s a hint of an invitation in those eyes. Very well. You will do just fine. Happy new year, my love.