All traces of merriment were gone from Brock’s face. There was only a tender fondness as he reached out and stroked my cheek.
“And I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am that you did.”
We kissed, and, as we separated, I glanced at his painting.
Brock tried blocking it with his hands and then sighed.
“It’s not finished yet.”
Though really, it didn’t matter. We could’ve only been painting for 30 minutes or so, and yet already the painting was gorgeous. Yellows, blues, oranges, and pinks were in the scene that would have brought tears to my eyes even if it had been in black and white. It was of me, of us. I was lying in some green grass, bare-bellied, our three children soundly asleep in my tummy, ever so slightly visible through my skin, beautiful and snuggled up together.
“Brock…” I whispered, and he kissed me again.
Our fingers ran over each other, delighted by the old feelings racing through our bodies. Brock’s fingers slid down my shoulders to my arms, and from there to my belly.
“Let me paint you,” he whispered in my ear.
“What?” I asked.
“Let me paint your belly,” he whispered.
I broke away and searched his face. He was serious. I smiled, nodded, and lifted the bottom of my shirt so my huge belly was exposed. Then, grabbing some paints and leaning over me, Brock got to work.
At first I watched Brock as he worked, the flicks of green he added to my lower belly, the swooshes of purple around the belly button, the blue up top. It was cute how into it he was, as if my belly was a canvas instead of skin. Soon, however, after all the day’s happenings, I found my eyes closing. Although I didn’t sleep. I relaxed into the soothing strokes of the brush against my bare skin. At least, until Brock placed his hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Alex, you awake?”
Opening my eyes, I nodded.
His gaze was intent; it was as if he was still painting.
“Can I do more?” he asked.
“More? What do you—”
I looked down, saw it, and gasped.
My belly was in bloom. Three lush, purple seedlings sprouted from a mass of lime green grass. The seedlings stretched up toward my shirt, which needed to move for more of the canvas to be completed.
Nodding, I lifted my top over my head so I was completely exposed.
Brock’s face changed for a moment, desire flashing through his eyes as he came face-to-face with my breasts. But after a deep breath, his eyes resumed their immersive stare and he got to work.
I closed my eyes and left the artist to his painting.
When I heard my name once more, I didn’t wait; I opened my eyes and smiled. Rolling waves of clouds spread across my breasts, the halo that was the sun nestled in between them. It was beautiful, perfect, and complete.
“Come over and look in the mirror,” Brock urged, sounding as excited as I felt.
I let him help me up and lead me to a small bathroom, where he pulled a chain and a light snapped on. And there I was. Or rather, there was Brock’s art: the violet seedlings, the lime grass, the azure sky and its marmalade sun. It was incredible.
I glanced at Brock. In the midst of his work, he too had stripped off his shirt and was now bare-chested.
Seeing my gaze, he chuckled.
“Well, it is only fair.”
“Let me paint you,” I said.
He cocked his head at me.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I said. Then, poking his ribs, I added, “Well, it is only fair.”
Smirking and taking my hand, Brock led me back to the canvases.
“Okay, Monet, you better have really meant it.”
Taking the paintbrush in my hand was one thing, but staring at the blank canvas of Brock’s muscled chest was another.
“Not as easy as it looks, eh?” he joked after I’d done nothing but stare admiringly at his pecs for a full minute.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said with a flick of navy on his belly. “It’s not all that hard either.”
And it wasn’t, not really. Not once I’d got the first line down. It was like all the other paintings, like anything in life: the tricky part was getting started.
And so with the first line done, came the idea. The image I began to paint on his chest started as an all-black outline. Then I added more black for the upper part of the head, the eyes, the beak, and the legs. I used gray for the feathers, the slightest bit of orange for the belly, more black along some feathers, and then I was done.
“You can open your eyes now,” I told Brock, who had done as I had and lightly napped during my painting.