He sat there quietly at the foot of their bed facing her, the fingers tapping smoothly over a piano at those hours of late morning. The sun was already high in the windowpane by the time she awoke; its warm glow filled the room. She was awaken due to the gentle melodious composition that he is playing from some time now. He looks at her, sensing she is awake. He stops playing for a moment to stand and attain her, wish her an exquisite good morning in his own little special way. She smiles, yet motions him to stay, with her fingers. He nods with a sparkling smile back, and gets back to playing.
Small things, she thinks, small things that makes this poignant bond stronger and simpler between us. Small things like this, where he understands what he is supposed to do, and what he is not. He keeps on playing, cause he knows she loves it. She just lays there on her front, her back almost uncovered by her blanket, facing him and listening to him. He keeps an eye on her expressions, as he plays. She keeps looking at him. She surveys his muscular body, how gorgeous he looks in that black silk nightshirt with just a few buttons closed. How his wavy dark-black locks play an added melody on his big brow, falling over his eyes quite a few times and He sets them back away subconsciously, with his slender fingers once in a while, between playing. His face looks angelic, with that smile. The morning sun shines superbly over his face and neck as if he’s more a stone sculpture of a man than a real one. Of course, sculpture is the word, she smiles, My creation after all.
She beckons him, with a snap of her finger. He had waited for this, for her to ask him. He had waited, and so set to work. He leaves the piano, and gets up over the bed, close to her. First, a kiss, set lightly on her back. Then the long flowing caresses the start of the start of the day. They speak quietly; recounting dreams from the night just past, and listen to the wind in the trees. The morning sets the tone for a day of gentle artistry.
She leaves the bed with him, for the day has to start, and there is lot to be done. She goes to her unfinished painting in the living room, looking at it in another light. She is adding color here and there as he stays by her side. She paints in her many media, coloring his flesh in shades of pink and purple at one time, coloring her canvas with a somewhat wider palette at another.
After a while, She relaxes to the gentle richness of red wine on the kitchen couch, as he stands near the kitchen counter, cutting and layering and mixing a simple meal. He may neither eat nor drink without her care, and she feeds him a taste now and again. The quiet control softens his walls, opens him up, so she may reach within.
Then She sculpts. Holding his hair, she pulls him down and makes him humble. She molds him within and without — working the body but shaping the soul. Kissing each tear, containing each struggle, she holds him close and takes the next step. She is the artist and the muse. In words, she plants the gentle thoughts of what could be. With her pencils, she draws waking dreams. With brushes upon skin, she shows the untapped possibilities inside his heart. She knows the hunger of the artist, to find the beauty that lies hidden and transform it so all may see. She knows the hunger of the muse, to inspire the artist. She feels the pull of both; they are shaped together.
The afternoon flows by and deepens into evening. By flickering light, the day’s creation is complete. One canvas, stretched tight, glistens in the corner as the paints slowly dry. Another “canvas”, held just as firmly but alive and breathing, sleeps gently on the living room sofa. She holds him close until he awakens, knowing the first changes are happening within.
Yet every painting must find its way into the light. The picture will go into a frame, then go on view. He will step out of this quiet place and back into the world. Both carry a message, of inner vision brought to light. Both will grow and change in the eyes of others as the artist’s vision is played out. And both will bring pleasure.
Eyes aglow, he stands before her. The ropes come off one by one, leaving their marks on his soul stronger so ever than on his body. Freedom returns slowly, yet he remains open to her. Finally, she removes the ropes that had limited his reach. For those hands will serve her the pleasure of music on the piano before sleep.
That night, with hunger unabated, her hands will serve him abstinence. And he will play his finest, over the ivories and beyond, knowing it’s her creation.
