The Moment by Evan Hale

She sat up, prim and proper, as if in counterpoint to her casually draped robes and the haphazardly pillowed sedan chair. Like for her previous sittings, she was artfully arranged in Laurent’s beautiful courtyard, the scent of flowers filling her nose. Her lover looked up from his canvas to offer a conspiratorial wink, as her loosely wrapped coverings rippled in the breeze and brushed against her skin. The slight movement of the cloth kept the glow of their lovemaking fresh, and the faint curve of her lips betrayed imperfectly hidden delight.

It was her fifth and final sitting and, despite the lingering passion, she was ready to move on. Although sensual by nature, she had always been timid, but her artist’s tantalizing touch had sparked a change that opened her eyes to the wonders of pleasure. Guilty thoughts gave way easily as visions of guiding her husband’s fumbling attentions into shared ecstasy added a mischievous character to her half-hidden smile.

Planning her husband’s education filled her with delicious anticipation, but it played through her mind in the dream-like state that sometimes occurs just before waking. Indeed, when sounds disturbed her, she was briefly aware of an enveloping darkness. No matter the disturbance, the darkness receded as she was inexorably pulled back into the magically captured moment… where her lover’s generous attentions gave rise to her plans of intimacy with the man she truly loved.

Some indeterminate time later, the instantly recognized – but out of place – creaking of the attic stairs disturbed her reverie. She frowned internally, her complex expression unchangeable on the canvas. Footsteps approached and the darkness lifted to reveal a young man. Holding a blanket, he blinked, surprise blooming on his face. His smile was so like the one that won her heart – before life etched away little pieces of its radiance. She didn’t know the man, but he reminded her of her husband.

His head tilted and, biting his bottom lip, a twinkle grew in his eyes. Nodding to himself, he covered her with the blanket, darkening her world once more. Strangely, although she knew she was sitting still, she was rocking. This time, the creaking of the stairs sounded near and did not diminish all the way down. Soon the swaying motion retreated from her consciousness, and she sat, satiated, watching her lover paint while planning evenings of rapture with her husband.

The next time the light intruded on her thoughts, the young man was lifting her up. It seemed so simple for him, as if she weighed nothing at all. “You really are a masterpiece. The painter…,” he whispered, squinting down to his right, “…Laurent, was a magician.”

He is indeed a wonderful artist, she thought in bawdy amusement. I can’t wait to guide my husband to the same mutual pleasure. The idea titillated, and she knew her face wasn’t quite hiding her mischievous delight.

The young man’s movement again dragged her from the moment. He really could be our son, she thought. He leaned back and admired her before stepping to the side to take her in from a different perspective. Her sightline suddenly unobscured, she saw no courtyard, no artist. Instead, she found herself in the entranceway of her home. However have I gotten here?

Directly across from her was the foyer mirror. She stared at herself in shock, but neither surprise nor a dawning realization altered her expression. There she was… hanging slightly askew but framed and painted to perfection. Her pose concealing none of her satiation; the slight curve of her lips betraying naughty thoughts.

“I don’t know why Dad hid you away all this time,” said the young man. “Mother, you are radiant.”

Oh, I know why, my son. Laurent’s artistry captured everything. Perhaps a little too well…. She would have shaken her head, but she couldn’t move. And her tinge of guilt disappeared with a realization: My husband must have forgiven me….

Then, unblemished by interruptions, the moment returned for the woman in the portrait.

She sat up, prim and proper, and watched her lover’s brush hover over the canvas. The whispering breeze moved draped cloth across her skin, offering a tantalizing reminder of his touch… and led her to contemplate the discovery of deeper, more meaningful moments with her husband.

Evan Hale

A Mess of oil paints and artists equipment from Pixabay.com