He fell in love with her lines, the shadows of her face and the colors of mid-morning blush that would so often creep up her cheek [you imagine]. You knew, as most fools do, that nothing would make you
a piece of his art.
"The man is self-obsessed. It's not your fault". You sigh, lean on your hand and drag a fork across the plate. Truth raises it's swords in defense to the things you never want to hear.
"You don't understand, he paints me. He paints me nearly everyday, moves me around like a wooden doll and tells me, he tells me, 'You have the loveliest eyes'. The loveliest."
"And where do these paintings hang? In the foyer?"
"No... we haven't enough room. They're in storage, he says" and you sigh once more and think of the canvases he uses as kindling. You think of the night he told you that your smile was the perfect way to practice. You fought, of course, because you no longer inspired him, a fact which you both had accepted as paintings of his midnight whores had started to line the walls. Singular, a single whore. She was a blonde, European, with a slender brow and long fingers shaped for piano. You imagine him sketching her naked form on the bench as she sang (which an imagined crystal voice) and played for him. But of course, you imagine all sort of things. You wear his ring and she wears his paint.
"Darling, you need to leave. Leave him with his silly drawings. You should vacation with us to Cyprus, it's beautiful. The trees are heavy with oranges this time of year, you really should get out of that house."
"I can't, he's still healing."
"He's cheating on you."
"I have no proof!"
"Where do you think his ear is?"