Finally it was all just a few details. A few final notes. I picked it up and dragged it to the large mirror at the side of the room to see its reflection. This is another thousand-year-old trick. A painter needs to see it with fresh eyes, and the mirror image can sometimes show startling omissions and other things that would be obvious to a stranger. But when you’re in the act of painting, you can become blind to the errors. You need new eyes.
But here, no. The reflection was fascinating, bringing out details I had forgotten I’d inserted. I stared at it proudly, analyzing the flow, the swirling path of the composition, and the desperate burst of life of the branches. Those fruits wanted to be born. That was what this painting was about: striving to be born.
Perching it back on the easel, I snapped a photo with my phone and texted it to Bridget. That should buy me a day of silence, I thought.
She texted me back almost immediately:
All right. Yes. Gorgeous. I forgive u.
Suddenly I was ravenous and wondering what time it was. The playlist had started itself over so it must have been hours, and I had only time for coffee that morning before work.
Padding into the kitchen, I heard Jackson’s melodic whistling before I saw him. A smile crept across my lips. On tiptoe, I peeked around the corner.
He was standing at the granite-topped kitchen island, shirtless, slicing zucchini into strips. His linen trousers draped elegantly from his hips, rumpling slightly at the ankles. As I watched him, the muscles on his back rippled and smoothed with the motions of his arms.
He whistled some sort of classical lullaby. The sound was amazing. I had never heard anyone whistle more than tuneless impersonations of pop songs or screeching commands of Come here, the sort you give to taxicabs. Whistling for him was like playing an instrument. It had emotion, vibrato, and dynamics. I was astounded that something so simple could be made so beautiful.
The long furrow of his spine swayed slightly as he moved back and forth. I breathed deeply, hoping I could catch his scent. Whenever we were together, his scent made me hungry, ravenous. I drank him in gulps. In the last week I had swallowed so much of his seed he was practically food for me. But still I wanted more. Rather than finding myself sated, I found my appetite only increased.
I wanted to sneak up behind him and touch him, run my fingers down the silky valley between his shoulder blades, but I didn’t want to startle him. I cleared my throat gently just to let him know I was there.
“Oh, I heard you,” he said softly and grabbed a handful of grape tomatoes from the carton to slice in half. “Hungry yet?”
“Starving,” I admitted. As soon as the word was past my lips my body remembered that I hadn’t eaten and started clamoring for food.
Jackson flipped on a burner and dove for an omelette pan in the cupboard.
“Sit,” he commanded. “I’ll make you something.”
“You cook?” I said incredulously as I walked to the opposite side of the island and pulled out a stool. The cleaning lady Miranda arranged for us usually cooked a couple meals for the day for us, and I tended to eat like a college student: always on the run.
He shook a pat of butter in the pan. It bubbled in circles, covering the bottom.
“I do, a little,” he said modestly as he cracked eggs into a bowl, added some salt and pepper and a little milk, and started beating the mixture with a fork.
After tossing in a handful of vegetables, he pressed his lips together adorably and flipped the pan several times. His pecs clenched and then settled. I wondered if I was going to be allowed to each lunch off his chest.
Jackson didn’t look at me, though I knew he could tell I was watching him. If it had been Declan, he would have asked me to narrate every thought so he could preen and flex for my adoration. Jackson was more reserved in general. He was always sweet and thoughtful, and more tender. He only pulled my hair when he came, and he loved to stare into my eyes for a long time after.
Declan was more commanding and forceful and didn’t make a big show of emotion either. I felt like a toy in his hands. Sometimes it was a little frightening, being with someone so enthusiastically curious about my body, so willing to push my limits. But he always come back.
Declan was “Naughty” and Jackson was “Nice.” I thought of them as either “Naughty and Nice” or “Nice and Naughty,” depending on which facet was more prominent in my mind at the time.
And here he was, all Nice, making me lunch. Beautiful, sleek, strong. He poured the eggs over the lightly sauteed vegetables and covered it with a lid.
“Feta?” he asked. I nodded. The aroma was making my mouth water, and I tried not to salivate like a dog. He held a bunch of herbs in his fist and chopped them to smithereens with lightning fast strokes.