It wasn’t a deliberate choice. Nor was it subjective to choose her in every piece of his. Her, woman, who depicts every painting and embodies the substance and its gravity that is required to project it in the brightest light. She’s followed when she wears her earrings, ties her hair, graces her neck with the mist of j’adore, and becomes woman every time she grooms.
There have been times when she rolls into the crumpled comforter of hers that slips away from her curves and shows the best of scars when she sleeps, when she moans, when she looks at the moon that reminds her of the lost eyelash of hers the shape of crystal crescent that falls every night.
She sports a mole across her Cupid bone that completes her look with as deep a cleavage or as minimum a cloth it takes. Just about time, a few strands of her hair fall through her face and cover that mole, they stick around the sweat until he brushes them away in his painting.
It occurred to her when she bent down to tie her shoe laces if there is an escape from these paintings she’s absorbed into, if these colors will ever evaporate and free her from the textures that follow her veins, and streams of blood that she bleeds from, places so fragile, that even mere tickles bloom her virgin stigma.
The love for ladies has never been unrequited, they always know.
So they all jump into the bus that leaves for Paris, every night.