“You made it,” he’s sportive, though cautiously, the gentleness he imparts a derivative of something still knowingly incipient, evident in his approach overall. His smile curves slowly, a greeting extending where he otherwise hadn’t moved, head leaned aside to peek past the canvas’ frame. “I thought you’d be too busy today.” A soft, partial truth. The complete truth would be something involving a personal admittance. Something that more directly speaks to the insecurity rendering him moldable then, alludes to the usable parts of himself that he’s surrendered, awaiting her guidance.
It feels like a kind of diplomacy almost, with treaties whose missives were inscribed by moments like this, where he’s permitted her into his innermost sanctuary, realized in the corporeal world. Even his most ephemeral thoughts have a place among the wall, shaped colors enshrined as his past selves, reconsidered and precious even if they were fragmental. They were pieces, not completely aligned, but their mirror was still lucid, even with its cracks.
Something like that.
“I meant to say thank you, by the way, for coming to my studio this time. I hope you found it easily. I feel like I’m not the best at giving directions. Sorry,” coyly, short fluster breaking him with a sweet and grinning pink, his head quickly tucked back behind the project. “I can’t even say I could’ve given you a ride since I don’t drive. I can, however, assure you that I’ve actually made progress.” He’s moving toward her eagerly, the earlier covenant signed by his fingers encircling her wrists trustingly, leading her to their greater effort for the previous month unto now.
“See?” He points with his index, its tip nearly grazing the sole, centered spot of gold not completely swallowed by the whisked fusion of clouds expanding beside it. “It’s brighter now, and then here,” his voice lowers thoughtfully, redirecting their attention to the receding silhouettes of uniformed men on their rock. “I was thinking we’d actually start with the women behind them. I thought it might be easier, since the moonlight is reflecting onto them and we can see its yellow more vividly now.”
The subsequent quiet is almost celebratory, with him retreating into his own space before the painting, processive. His gaze more keen, lit as if it too were auriferous, its gilded luster only obvious amidst the lunar sheen, as if it had risen there, bequeathing him with a newer angle to himself, a certain perceptibility. “I have a really good feeling about this piece,” he’s murmuring, quietly still, contemplative. “I don’t think it’ll do well at the auction, though.” He glances to her knowingly, cues a quick wink. “Am I just pessimistic?”
@chrsujeong