Fifteen
Celia stretched out for—hopefully—the last sitting for the purple painting. This pose took significant muscle, balancing on one knee and reaching forward. The pillows under her knee felt thinner every time. He was trying to paint fast for her, aware of her discomfort, but couldn’t keep silent for long.
“It’s a shame this is in purples,” León said, “That pretty gold skin of yours, I wonder if I could even mix the perfect colors.”
She held the pose despite the self-conscious delight washing over her.
“Where’s your family from?” he asked, hidden behind the canvas. “I’m getting to know you. It’s okay to ask that, right?” He liked springing questions on her, she was discovering. She knew what he was really asking with this one.
“It’s okay. California,” she answered. “And my father was Filipino.”
“I wondered,” he said. “I was born in New York, but my family’s from Puerto Rico.” He chuckled. “I’ve been called Mexican twice out here already.”
She concentrated on holding the pose, ignoring her poor knee.
“Have you ever been to the city? New York City, I mean?”
“A few times.” It had exhausted her, all the dense crowds. “It’s not an easy place for a shy person.”
“No, it wouldn’t be. So, is it time for a break?”
God yes. She relaxed and took her weight off of her knee.
“Nearly done,” he said. “Come look.”
She flexed her joints before walking stiffly over.
The tenuous ghostly figure looked done to her. He’d even added that dark spot on her neck.
“Untouchable Celia,” he smiled, reaching out to run a finger down her bare arm. She shivered.
“I’m not sure I get it,” she said. “I mean, I get having imagination, but you said it’s what’s inside me, something you can’t see or know. Why is it…this?”
“I’m painting the feeling I got then. And I couldn’t paint it after I get to know you, right?”
She couldn’t paint her own inner self. She couldn’t even imagine an image that would be close, but León just charged ahead and made this beautiful vision.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. Cooking, she could do.
“Not for food, reinita.”
His roguish smile banished her cares and soreness.
···
León could not be happier. Celia was perfect. His paintings were perfect. Every hour was perfect!
He woke before the sun every morning in her fluffy cloud of a bed, Celia warm and tranquil beside him, the daybed outside already fading from memory. He couldn’t waste time sleeping, waiting as long as he could stand before waking her with quiet morning talk.
They’d paint for an hour, then he’d release her to putter in the house. What she found to clean was beyond him; everything was always spotless, towels laundered, surfaces gleaming. When she called him for breakfast, there were never dirty dishes in the sink.
He reached out to touch her constantly, any time he felt the urge. She was still quiet, but her body told him what she liked. She always welcomed his soft touches. She liked it even more when he was a little rough or possessive, trembling as she looked up with wide, yielding eyes, teasing that she didn’t belong to him while her body said the opposite.
He craved the time she’d approach, touching him first, but could never wait long enough. She would, he knew, if he wasn’t always there first.
Her lesson was always later, later, but she didn’t complain. When Andrew invited himself over, she put him off too. Their perfect days were spent painting.
And then came the nights. The perfect nights.
···
With three weeks to go until the exhibition, León was finishing the yellow painting.
“The light and shadow in this one are so sharp,” Celia said, feeling the soreness in her neck as she came to look.
He grinned, unable to touch her with paintbrush and palette in hand. “The sight of you in those golden shadows, agreeing to pose…I should have kissed you right then.”
She blushed, still somehow able to feel bashful at his declarations. He never seemed to feel embarrassed by them.
“What feelings do you get from it?” he asked. Her lessons kept getting put off, but he still asked that about everything, helping her practice.
The painting was a cubist face in blazing yellows, with slashes of pale light and umber shadows from an unseen spotlight. It was looking up at the viewer, the eyes quietly bold. A hint of insecurity in the foreshortened shoulders and collarbone faded away below. The face said strength, but the posture said submission.
Celia was getting better at interpreting León’s work.
“I see caution,” she said. “She’s pretending to cower.”
“Really, pretending?” León glanced over, curious.
Celia stepped back to see the full painting better. “The eyes are sure of themselves,” she said, “but everything else is weak. She’s pretending to be scared while you’re standing over her, but secretly she could mess you up.”
He chuckled. “That’s almost what I was going for. I was thinking she’s challenging you but is fearful underneath, docile. See, her body gives her away.”
“I see the opposite,” Celia declared. “She’s hiding strength, not fear.”
León looked at his painting. “Huh.”
···
León was not a late sleeper, she found. He woke her each morning far too early, with far too much energy. Celia had thought she was a morning person until he began sharing her bed. He liked to gently poke at her until she opened her eyes, and then the talking started.
She awoke to a tickle on her neck. A glimpse toward the ceiling confirmed weak morning light. Was the sun even up yet?
“Someone wants attention,” she murmured.
“Me,” his voice said next to her. “I do.”
She rolled over to face him, seeing dark eyes peeking at her over the white comforter.
“Celia,” he asked as she covered a yawn, “have you ever been in a fistfight?”
She was getting used to his constant questions, though how he came up with his random topics was a mystery. Who asked about fights before the sun was up?
Deep down, though, the attention warmed her.
“I have been in a fight, yes. And I won’t tell you about it.” Before he could protest, she went on the offensive. He liked when she asked questions back, she’d discovered. “Have you ever been arrested?”
“Nope,” he said, his eyes almost regretful. She twitched as fingers suddenly ran up her side under the covers, and crinkles at his temples gave away a hidden grin. “Did you like bad boys when you were growing up?”
“Yes, but I never talked to any,” she replied. “I stuck to the nice, polite ones.”
That spirited smile emerged as he pulled down the comforter and scooted closer. It wasn’t fair of him to be charming this early.
What else could she ask?
“Did you like bad girls?”
“All boys like bad girls.” He slid one arm over her, snuggling in close, the comforter a cocoon around their shoulders. Could he look more smug? “Would you pretend to be bad for me, mi cielo?”
Celia threaded an arm under his to stroke his bare back. “Who says I’d have to pretend? I’ve been in fights, remember.”
He gave her a slow sweet kiss, his loose hair tickling her cheek. His smile as he moved to hover over her was even sweeter. “You’re a nice, polite girl, I can tell.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him, her smile cryptic. “If you say so. Would you pretend to be a bad boy?”
“Celia, if you asked for it, I’d get arrested.”
···
With two weeks to go until the exhibition, León started on a lush painting in celadon green. In this, she simply stood, her head serenely turned away in profile, cradling an armful of fern fronds from outside. His sweet muse deserved a break from the complicated poses.
“If I’m posing as Mother Nature,” she asked, “why do I just stand up straight? I could do more.”
“You’re a garden, the goddess in it, the pillar in the middle. Provider, mother, all that.”
“It’s hardly work. You’re sure it’s enough?”
He peered around the canvas, eyes sweeping up her graceful lines. Enough? She could do no wrong. “You’re giving me everything I could possibly want, Celia. Here, come look.”
She set down her leaves and came around. Once again, wonder at his talent consumed her. It was her but not her, leafy shapes layering into lush greenery that grew into a standing woman at the center. The profile wasn’t precisely hers, but the neck and shoulders were. There was a nobility about the figure but no sense of welcoming like she’d expected.
“This feels more remote,” Celia said. “I thought providing for someone would feel personal, but she’s looking away.”
León eyed his work, taking her critique seriously. “She’s like a garden personified. Maybe that makes her a little reserved. She’s not offering anything. She is the bounty.”
Celia thought she understood what he meant. It wasn’t what she’d expected. “So, I’m just taking…her? She doesn’t get to enjoy me eating from the garden? That’s the best part of feeding people.”
“It’s just a story,” he said gently. “You don’t have to judge whether it’s good or bad, just show that it exists.”
Celia slowly went still. “I feel bad for her.”
León watched her surreptitiously, paintbrush still poised near the canvas, his breath held. He waited as she gulped a hard breath.
“You’re getting feelings from a painting,” he said softly. “My painting.”
She nodded.
He reached out a hand to touch his fingertips to hers. “That’s wonderful, mi cielo.”
“I don’t want her to be remote,” she sniffled.
“We could paint another one later,” he offered. “She’s not sad, Celia. This is what she’s meant to be.”
“We’ll make a better story for her,” Celia insisted.
···
Once Celia introduced León to relaxing in the pool after dusk, he began looking forward to their peaceful hour in the glowing water. She was right—you could think there. Something about floating in the quiet blue freed the mind; maybe because you simply couldn’t do other tasks until you got out.
“What’s your favorite food to make?” he asked her as they draped next to each other on the side of the pool, both gazing at the remote city lights. He rested his chin on his hands, enjoying the cool weightlessness.
Her happy sigh gratified him.
“Do you want the long answer or the short answer?”
He laid one wet cheek against his hands so he could look at her, not replying. He didn’t care. Whatever she said, he learned something about her.
“I guess I like curing meats best,” she mused. “Pastrami, that’s fun. Oh, I’ll make you gravlax! Cured salmon. It’s delicious. You bury it raw in salt and sugar and fresh dill, wrap it tight and put a weight on top, then flip it every twelve hours….” She trailed off, watching his face. She was better now at reading distraction in him.
He realized his thoughts had drifted, feeling guilty that she created such elaborate dishes. And posed. And let him stay in her place and share her bed. He certainly couldn’t say he was supporting himself. He wasn’t contributing anything but the art.
León pushed those thoughts away to get back to the present. “Go on,” he encouraged.
“Would you like to try gravlax?” she asked. “I haven’t made you any seafood since…you know.”
He pursed his lips. “It just sounds like so much work, Celia.”
He’d wanted to feed her questions and listen to her talk. Asking about cooking had been a misstep. Hearing about her efforts made his feel paltry.
“I don’t mind doing it,” she said stoically. “I like it.”
“You should do it, then,” he said. “I just haven’t been sure if…I mean, I don’t want you to do these things just for me.”
“It’s for both of us.”
“Us.” He smiled, seeing his way to a better topic. “That’s a nice word, us.”
He reached out to touch her arm under the water so gently he didn’t even rouse ripples.
Celia smiled, lulled by the touch, but León suspected she wasn’t done musing on it. She always seemed hesitant when she served him food. It made him feel worse about giving her nothing but art. Her talent was cooking, and his was painting. She wouldn’t limit herself for his sake, would she?
···
The week before the exhibition, León was painting her sitting cross-legged, cocky and defiant. The memory of her sitting on his cot, telling him off, was begging to be painted in reds. Celia had to stand often to relieve the strain on her knees and back.
“Come tell me what you feel in this one,” he said. Getting her impressions was more fun with every painting.
She approached and considered. Did she see the how the deep red triangles, improbably balancing on each other, resolved into anger, irreverence, and a seated woman? Her spiky face echoed in the pink triangle between her wide-spread knees.
“It’s sex,” she said. “But also teasing. You can’t have it. All the thorns mean ‘stay away.’”
León looked at her, blinking. She kept noticing elements he hadn’t intended. It was okay, but he somehow forgot while he painted that she saw things from different angles.
“Did I miss the point again?” she asked.
“No, no. I just was going somewhere else. Somewhere close,” he amended as she looked anxious. “This is your righteous anger at me for being inconsiderate that one day. Your power, refusing me right when I realized I needed to paint you.”
“I can see that,” she said, leaning close to inspect the jagged red face.
“Why do you feel she’s teasing?” he asked, genuinely curious. He hadn’t meant it to be teasing.
“Well, it’s such a sexual posture. She’s spread out, inviting you to see, but the face and all the sharp ends say stop. So, it’s…it’s about denial.” She looked pleased to have found the right word.
León paused, looking again. Had he accidentally painted what she saw? Instead of her wrath and authority, had he been painting something he felt at the time but didn’t realize?
Maybe.
He’d wanted her then, for sure. Maybe he was painting his own unseen anger at her rejection of him that day. Their conversation had been entirely different then, but…damn.
“Mi musa, you’re a prize.”
···
Celia leaned back in the corner of the sectional couch after dinner, stretching her legs. These days she was either on her feet or sitting in an uncomfortable position. It was a far cry from the empty days before, when she didn’t have enough to do to tire her out. It felt good, even with the pain.
León came out of his studio room, having finished his nightly cleanup. He gravitated to her on the couch, sitting and patting his lap so she would put her feet up on him.
“Who was your first crush?” he asked, rubbing her feet absently. She let her head fall back, cheeks turning pink.
“Don’t laugh! Mario Lopez.” She peeked to gauge his reaction. He didn’t laugh.
“Not a boy at school?” She shook her head. “What was it about him?”
She had to think. “He was cute, of course. But I guess I liked his confidence. He acted like everything would go his way, and it did. On TV, I mean.”
León nodded along.
“I think that’s why I first went out with Andrew,” she continued. “He has that same vibe.”
This time León laughed.
“When was your first kiss?” she asked back.
It was his turn to redden.
“A girl in elementary school. She was hanging upside down on the monkey bars. I kissed her, then ran away.” He saw Celia’s eye roll. “I knew she liked me, though. Her friend told me.”
“Male aggression,” she deadpanned. “Kissing her when she couldn’t stop you.”
His eyes got that roguish look again, and before she knew it, he had pulled his feet onto the couch and climbed toward her on all fours. Did he never run out of energy? In seconds he was straddling her, leaning close, pinning her under him. She took one quick shaky breath, looking up at him eagerly. He lowered himself until his lips were inches from hers.
“You like a little aggression, though, don’t you?” he asked, confident of her answer.
He wasn’t wrong. She did like it. She worried that she shouldn’t, but every time he got masterful, she felt a deep thrill.
He bent his head and kissed her hard, pressing her into the cushion, one hand coming up to roughly grasp her shoulder where it met her neck. She brought her hands up to his chest but was too confined to reach further.
“Celia,” he said against her cheek, breathing hard. “You’re mine.”
She froze. This again.
“Say it for me,” he growled low, running his hand up her neck.
She stayed silent too long. He withdrew a little to look at her. The moment stretched out, him waiting and her refusing to say the words. Finally, he closed his eyes.
“Celia, what do you want?” He shook his head. “I can’t just guess. You have to at least react.”
She looked down, her chest still rising and falling too fast. “I don’t want to react,” she finally said quietly.
He slowly sat back onto her thighs, creating space between them. Frustration was written across him. “You have to, though,” he said. “Honesty, remember?”
He presumed her wants mirrored his. How could she say he would never own her, that it was too far?
“I need to know if you like it,” he continued, apprehension growing on his face the longer she went without speaking. “Especially if I’m being a little rough, you have to respond. Tell me, touch me back.”
Comprehension struck. He just meant reacting when he touched her! Well. She could do better at that.
He swallowed roughly. “You could touch me first, even,” he said. “I’d like that. Do you…ever want to?”
Had she really never reached out to him first? She saw worry etching deeper into his face. Why—
Good lord! He was insecure! Arrogant, entitled León, always acting so sure of himself. He was uncertain, just like her.
Relief flooded her. She might not have León’s skills or talent, but this she could fix. Celia had spent her life making others feel important. Reassuring León would be easy now that she knew.
She reached for a fistful of his T-shirt, pulling. His eyebrows rose sharply.
“I do like this, León.”
She gazed up at him through her lashes, then leaned forward to kiss him. His face when she finished radiated satisfaction.
“I like you, León.”
He nearly purred as he melted down onto her.
···
With two days to go until the exhibition, León was forced to make tough decisions about what was finished enough to show.
“There was no way I could get them all done,” he said, “but dammit, they’re done in my head. I wish there was more time.”
“There will be other shows.”
“I know. It’s just so exciting. I want everyone to see. I want to see everyone see.”
Celia hovered as he chose and re-chose which paintings to include. The deadline to deliver them was the next day. He finally settled on the purple, the yellow, and the blue. She helped him package them for transport using the supplies she’d ordered.
She was amused to see that he’d added a faint dark spot to her neck in each of them. He didn’t joke around, León.