The Artist

It goes like this; you find inspiration where you can get it.

I'm painting.

It is here that I am most myself, here where I gain the substance and meaning of life. This is my best reality.

I am absorbed, deep into the slide of the paint, probing and revealing an inner world that hasn't been visited until now. She's there on the canvas, in a bed of stars and waves of color; a goddess of pearl and gold with her arms outstretched as if to greet me. This gigantic figure of woman is an admission of mine, made holy through this journey of slick and spreading light. Her eyes are blue as the Mediterranean Sea. Her hair flows like a dark inky wine. Her breasts are the perfect breasts of the Song of Solomon. In paint they are the lands from which all favor and good flows. I have to stretch to reach them with my brush, but here, in this world of color I may and can.

In life they are unattainable.

She's a woman I know in my day job, which funds this habit of mine. Okay, I don't actually "know," her. She is the boss, the woman in charge, and the one who is rich beyond my wildest imaginings. If I had that kind of money I would never be in an office again. But still, I recognize her when I see her and it like to makes me faint with want. Every time. I have no idea what it does to her. She always is the picture of composure to me.

I find it difficult to breathe, much less think, when she is around. Thank God she is from upstairs and me a lowly peon in her kingdom of the geeks. Her visitations come upon us suddenly, surprising, as if she were the risen Son of God. I've never seen anything like it. If she were the leader of an army they would chant her name and fall on their own swords for her.

I understand the impulse, but I let the others flock to her. 'I have things to do,' I tell myself. It's better that way.

Cubicles can be numbing, but you can hide behind them too. I doubt she even notices. But I watch her carefully.

Then I flee if she moves in my direction. It is a necessity if I want to keep this job. I am not coherent when she is near. I'm barely coherent knowing that she is floors above me and can descend any time to this fluorescent hell.

But I am a junkie when it comes to art. I will do anything, including work, for the right canvas or color when I need it. It helps that I am passable handy with a computer. I can 9 to 5 with the best of them. Knowledge I have gleaned from the deep keeps me employed.

"Solar Incorporated. May I help you?" The customers love me and I them. I may be oddly shy in real life, but on the phone I am an amazon queen and fearless. I can talk my way through almost anything they have to challenge me with. Since they don't see my face, I can be anyone, even a computer expert.

It's worth it. This last month I bought 6 new brushes. Brushes may be expendable, I can wear mine down to the nubbin, but they can also be expensive.

I would be perfectly content to stay on the help desk. But, I am the best-kept secret of Frank, the manager, and his ticket to success. We've been friends a long time gone, since our parents met and colluded to have us married. But neither of us was the marrying kind; at least not to each other. He was the one who lured me to this job when an opening came up. He plots to scale the ladder of corporate success and take me with him whether I will or no. "I'm an artist," I tell him. But he just gives me that charming grin of his.

"Yes, you most certainly are," he'll tell me. It's because he knows a grand secret about me.

For some weird reason, I understand computers. I can't add worth shit, but I compose programs as if they were songs. Literally. They sing in me, demanding to come out, like my paintings. I sometimes find myself reading the code aloud in priestly chant to hear the rhythm and make sure they are right. It doesn't matter which language, as long as the program sings.

Naturally, given this oddity, this is best done at home, that is, when Frank needs me to proof his latest push towards ascendancy. He forgives any changes I make as long as the program does what is required. So, while I spend most of my time at the office, I also spend time where my voice won't shatter the complacency.

I am not sure how Frank explains it or if he even says anything at all to the higher ups. I guess that as long as he comes up with the miracle they don't ask questions. I know I wouldn't.

While we are many things to each other, I do not have a painting of Frank. The programs are my portraits of him - good, solid and trustworthy. I doubt he realizes this, but that's what you get when you're friends with an artist. We make odd connections in our thinking.

Early this morning Frank disturbed my sleep with a video phone call. "This is it," he told me, all excited. "We're this close." He held his thumb and index finger together, moving them as if pulling a thread forward through a needle. I rubbed my eyes awake and rolled out of bed.

He's seen me naked before. He can stand it.

I could have abs sharper than blades and he would be oblivious. He is a man's man. His eyes slide to the side though and he moves as if he wants to hide his screen from somebody. "I've sent you a file, triple encrypted." Aha. We're playing Secret Squirrel. Frank is funny that way. "You'll have to send it back that way. It's huge, but I know you can do it. The description of the function is in the e-mail. We're going places you and me. Don't worry about coming in to work today, just work on this and we'll be set."

Uh-huh. He'll be set. Fortunately for him I love him.

I slept-ate through breakfast and poured caffeine into my system. Wake up. Wake up.

I have this belief that I should at least be conscious when I code.

I barely bothered dressing, there was no one here to see anyway. Today's choice was a pair of frayed jean shorts and a torn yellow T-shirt with pooh bear on the front. It is sprinkled with multi-hues of paint.

I opened the porch door to let some fresh air in. The sky was pink, turning to blue. It was early and already I could tell it was going to be a hot one. My feet welcome the cool floor on days like today.

I didn't bother switching on the light and went ahead straight for my "office."

Really the small room is a land of stacks and stacks of books. I am a voracious reader. The shelves have long since filled and given up keeping hold of it all. But the table I use for a desk is an island of visual quiet. An old brown clipboard of yellow lined paper sits under an ivory cup filled with pens and pencils. A white electronic timer sits proudly upon the large beige computer monitor. I have to have it there. Time disappears when I'm coding.

Like painting, it takes me to a whole different realm and sometimes, when I'm free from its call, I wonder at myself. I wonder where it is I go and why this particular act demands such careful order.

According to Frank's email I had until 2 in the afternoon. There was a hint of desperation in the letter. Come on Frank, you've been in worse places than this. I smirked and shook my head. He may be on a schedule, but it wasn't mine. Still I'd see what I could do for him.

Hours later, but much earlier than scheduled, I finished. For once his code was tight, amazingly clean. I hardly added anything, just an enhancement to make the program go a little faster, something to make it a little more handsome. Then I sent that boyo off and gave myself a stretch and found that I was hungry.

My stomach assaulted me with noise; the gurgle of feed me. This was not a problem. I kept plenty of food in the refrigerator. I am a fan of food.

I don't paint every day. There are other things in life to attend to. But sometimes when I pass by the door to my studio, I can practically hear the paintings. "Come to me. Come to me."

I think I was eating a turkey sandwich, when I turned my head and looked into the room. And there she was, so tall and beckoning. I swear I heard her voice, a sexy contralto full of promise.

I'm not even sure now where I put the sandwich or even if I finished it or even if I really started it. Did I eat?

I don't remember. I don't care.

The problem with being an artist of any kind is that the steps to compulsion are very short. We fall all the time. Fortunately for us, there is a limit, a natural set of stops or some that we've made for ourselves to keep us grounded.

It occurs to me later that I forgot to set the timer. Thus it is I lose myself and enter the fantasy completely.

I wear an apron over my shorts, to cover my thighs and provide pockets for the once clean brushes. My shirt is a mess already and I'm thinking it's almost useless now. I pull pooh-bear off and toss it to the side. It is an easy sacrifice. I pull a clean cloth from a pile of them and wipe my face and arms. I glance out the window. It's dark outside, bright inside. All my lights are clapped on.

I hardly thought about it. A secret smile rests upon my lips. Soon she'll be done and I can rest.

I swear I can hear her call my name. Do I answer? Of course. "I am here. I am here painting you." And I turn to the canvas, pick up the stick once more.

"May I come in?"

She sounds so far away for someone who is as close as this crimson brushstroke.

"Come in, come in," I chant. "Enter, O Goddess, the Holy Land. I am yours." I pray. My meditation is at hand.

Then there is a sound, unfamiliar. A gasp? A stumble? "Oh sweet Gods." Whose breath is that? Not mine. But the voice, this time, is all too real.

Shivers roll down my spine as I straighten up. Iron drops in my belly and makes me want to gulp. My hand has gone very still.

Stern words fall like stone into the air, "Don't move."

I close my eyes against the trembling that suddenly takes over my legs. Oh she is mad.

No. It is obvious from all that surrounds that is I who am mad.

What is she doing here anyway?

The house is making familiar shushing noises, which under other circumstances would be soothing or ignored. Now the sound grates as I listen for anything, anything from her.

She is moving. I hear a soft thud and then another.

In my mind I can see her expression as one of ire. It is much different from the serene inviting gaze, which looks down upon me from the canvas. I want desperately to turn around, raise my hands above my head and flee from that heavenly glance.

Truth can be so hard to face.

I wonder, briefly, what she is wearing. I guess it must be something businesslike, almost formal, something bright or dark. Is she in powerful red or masterful black? She stands so close I can feel the fabric of her blouse shift with her breath. Silk, I think. It is so very smooth.

Her words slide like hot butter into my ear. "Do you know how I feel, seeing this now?"

I wince and feel helpless. The brush trembles in my hand. My mind conjures words: mortified, embarrassed, deadly.

She touches me, and those words spin away fast. Long fingers, with perfectly groomed nails, slide up along my side, from apron to the slope of my breast. I gasp. "Paint." She says. "Paint and don't stop. Not until I tell you."

I don't know how it even happens, but as her hand covers and cups my nipple, my arm reaches and the brush touches the canvas.

Now I pray for strength, for she is melting me with a quick burning fire. My other breast is covered with her other hand. She presses against me, kneading and pinching softly as if they were fonts meant to pour rivers. She delivers fine kisses along the skin of my neck and shoulders. They ring like brass.

How do I mix color like this? How?

I give up all thought. Her will be done. The Goddess, she surrounds me.

Front and back, her hands they move and slide down me, under the apron. I feel the buttons of my fly release and stroke of a tongue slides a long line down my back. My shorts are drawn down my legs. Her hands firm my stance as she helps me. "Don't stop," she reminds me.

How can I? How can I not?"

Move arm, move. I feel dizzy with color. I can smell her, like flowers. I smell like paint. Is this power?

I feel small stinging bites, her lips upon my buttocks. Her teeth marking me. She is claiming me.

Me!

She holds me in the palm of her hand, pressing and making me gasp. Her fingers tease a dance along my edges then slip in with a long stroke, making me sway and buck. "Yes," she says.

She moves deep and at one point she is so buried in me the brush in my hand snaps. There is a pause, as if she is as surprised as I am to watch the pieces crackle to the floor. There is a smile in her voice, a mercy. "You can stop painting now."

I cry out my thanks and grab the edges of the easel and hope that it is stronger than my grip. My toes are curled into the canvas tarp on the floor. I am sweating now as she takes me with her hands, her mouth, and her body.

When did her clothes leave? I see them tossed carelessly to the side. That expensive blouse and suit is now as lost a cause as my yellow T-shirt. Black. She was wearing black.

She is talking to me and it's all wet blaze. My hair is streaked with sweat, it's normal golden red color changes with passion. The easel is swaying, and the canvas is rattling. My head is thrown back and I am drowning in the azure gaze, the pool of her waters.

The coil is wound as tight as it will go in me. Something must give. "Please. Please."

"Now." She says in benediction. The painting's lips seem to move.

I roar. Her name shatters from my lips, my body. I am bathed by her stars, by the waters of her night. All that we can be flows through me and it is good.

As I float down, she holds me in her arms, tight. Her tears are on my neck. Her kisses are upon my cheeks and then, as I turn to her, my lips. She tastes of salt and me. Our kisses are long and savory and familiar.

My legs feel like rubber. I start kneeling despite myself.

She lifts me up, into her arms, and carries me out of the studio into the bedroom. I am not surprised. She is who She is.

She lays me gently upon the bed, smiling at me as she wipes my brow. Then she slides in besides me. Our bodies fit and it pleases me. I turn so my hand rests upon her hip, so I can look into her lovely face.

All that shyness in front of her is gone forever. I yawn unintentionally. "Sorry," I apologize. I want to stay awake longer with her.

She smiles and caresses me. "You've had a busy day."

It's not a question. It's a knowing. How long has she known? Always? Poor Frank. He must have been sore afraid. She can be that way sometimes. "Yes." I counter with a question. "Stay?"

Her smile deepens until her eyes shine, "Oh yes."

"Good." I say and snuggle in close. We move as natural as the wind. I rest my head upon her shoulder where it is supposed to be.

"When did you get so smart?" She asks, but I'm too close to sleep. It's an answer that will wait. Tomorrow begins the best of my life.