Ethan
The canvas was almost taller than Anne. I’d made the right call, placing the only camera I had in her studio. It seemed so long ago that I’d first read those murderous, cold eyes. Now they reminded me of priceless ice-blue gemstones.
For two days I’d been watching her. She’d gone home to work Gareth’s testicles and lung into the final painting for her exhibition.
Being home alone made me restless. I hadn’t enjoyed her sleeping in my bed at first, but now I missed her heat beside me. Missed sinking into her as she slept.
Eva was still in the basement, but she was a living corpse. Even if she weren’t, no woman could compare to my Anne.
Anne’s music began.
Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World, on a loop. That deep voice, those soulful words—so unlike my classical music. But watching Anne hold her paintbrush and sway to it made me appreciate the difference in her taste.
No, it wasn’t the music or the words. It was Anne’s response to them. By the sixth loop I was still entranced, her painting beginning to take form.
Her lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what she said. Then she stood abruptly from her stool and twirled, my grey shirt catching the air—though I saw nothing past her thighs.
She crossed to the ice box, flipped the lid open, and lifted out a long strip of Gareth’s lung.
Another twirl and she was in front of the canvas again.
She dipped the lung into marbled white and blue paint, pressed it down, then applied the organ to the canvas, building a pattern before repeating the process.
There was only happiness as she worked.
I could watch her all night.
And I did.
?? ?? ??
My alarm went off and I reached out to silence it. As soon as the intermittent beeping stopped, Louis Armstrong’s voice floated through in its place, and I quickly checked on Anne.
She lay on the small two-seater couch, fast asleep.
I zoomed in.
Dried paint on her hands, tiny splatters across her face. I stroked her cheek on the screen before setting the phone down on my quilt.
The song played on.
I stared at my stark bedroom—white walls, clean lines, nothing out of place—and knew I’d need to commission a studio for her on my property.
My world wasn’t wonderful. Not without Anne.
Just as the loop began again, I sat up, pushed the quilt off, and strode to the bathroom. It wasn’t until I stood under the shower that I realised why I hadn’t closed the camera app: her music made me feel closer to her.
I shook my head.
When I turned the water off, the faint melody was still playing in the bedroom, drifting through the steam.
I was doomed.
?? ?? ??
That’s how I ended up at her door instead of at work that morning. Dr Kwasi had taken my patients for the day. This was Anne’s third day away from me, and it was not okay.
Resolute and armed, I rang her doorbell.
I leaned in to listen for movement, and when I didn’t hear her, I was tempted to check the phone app. Then I heard the chain, then the locks—one, two, three—click open.
I rolled my eyes.
Apparently I couldn’t even pick her front or back door anymore.
The door opened, and she eyed my hands.
“Oh, you can come right in, Dr Hammond,” she said, pulling a coffee from the cardboard cup holder.
I didn’t even get a chance to speak. She snatched the paper bag from my other hand and turned, walking down the hallway. She was still wearing my shirt. That had to mean something, right?
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
By the time I reached the kitchen, she was sprawled in a chair, biting into a raspberry-filled croissant before taking a long sip of coffee. She made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan. I couldn’t decide if she was teasing me or just enjoying her morning delivery.
When she took a second bite, I realised it wasn’t me she was appreciating—it was my goods.
“I thought you were working today?”
There was no way forward but brutal honesty.
“I’ve been watching you work in your studio for two days,” I said, watching her cup pause midway to her mouth. “I missed you.”
The cup rose to her lips. I watched her swallow before she spoke.
“Watching me?” she asked, one eyebrow arched.
She wasn’t angry. No weapons on the countertops or table. I sat across from her and set my coffee down.
“Yes.”
“Huh,” she said to herself, taking another bite of the croissant. Flaky pastry left crumbs on her lower lip; her tongue swept out and licked them clean. “You’ve got control issues, Ethan.”
I reached for the paper bag, and she smacked my hand.
Her dainty hand left quite the sting.
“You forfeit your pastry for spying on me, but you can make some toast if you want,” she smirked.
My lips curled—the first smile since she’d left. I sipped my coffee, listening as she told me about her progress. The powerful dehydrator. Crushed testicles, dusted with fine glitter.
I zoned out at some point, breathing easier just knowing we could survive together.