Rose was slowly taking shape on the canvas. She had a chin, but no nose. She had breasts, but no nipples. She had ears, but they were too, too delicate- mere nubs of color. She had hands and she had fingers, which were splayed like bursts of paint. Her neck had the right arch. Her body the correct line. Her skin its true hue.
Eric’s water was muddy with color. His wine glass was nearly empty. There was red paint smeared on his jeans.
“It’s looking good,” he said, tracing the shadow along Rose’s inner thigh.
“What?” asked Rose- the real Rose, who shifted in her seat and looked up from her text book. “Is it ready?”
“It needs more detail,” said Eric.
“Are you going to finish it?” asked Rose.
“Probably not tonight,” said Eric.
She stood and stretched- balanced on her tip toes, her arms wide, her mouth contorting in a yawn. Eric shaded and her hips had form. Rose pressed herself against his side. Her body was warm against him.
“She doesn’t have eyes or a mouth,” said Rose.
“I’ll get to them,” said Eric.
“It’s like she’s made of glass,” said Rose.
Eric set down the brush and wrapped his arms around her. She reached out her hand and carressed the painting’s face, catching the wet colors on the pads of her fingers.
“Any first impressions?” asked Eric. He pressed his lips against the bony part of her shoulder.
Rose was silent. She shrugged and pulled away. She stepped lightly across the room and poured herself a glass of wine. Eventually, she said, “You have such primitive tools.”
“You’re melodramatic,” he said.
“You’re melodramatic,” she said.
“You’re my muse,” he said.
“Don’t call me that,” she said and took a chug of her wine. Eric continued to paint his way along Rose’s ribs. “Such fucking primitive tools.”