Something had to give. She'd grown so weary of her dispassionate gaze and her insidious perfection. It wasn't always like this. They'd been something to one another once. She slipped her own blouse down over her arms, mirroring the black coat of her former lover. While she continued and let her blouse slip to the floor, she left the other woman's arms trapped at her sides.
"You will not be placed on a canvas today," she said. "You will be the canvas."
The artist grabbed a soft sable brush and dipped it into a glob of cerulean paint that matched the model's heavy-lidded eyes. She began a long line from the hollow of her flawless collarbone and extended between her breasts. Her expression was unwavering. Her own hands trembled as she gripped the brush. She remembered when the brush was her fingertips, when the paint was the tip of her greedy tongue. She swirled her brush around the globe of one breast, then the other. Her model remained as still as an actual canvas, though goosebumps bloomed across her ivory skin. She took a deep breath and dipped her fingertips in another pool of paint before sweeping them in an arc across her abdomen. A deep ache registered in her gut as she recalled the silken flesh below. How it felt beneath her fingers. Her sweet, smoky taste. She was trying so hard to pull out something in her former lover, but there was nothing. Stroke after stroke across her skin, and nothing came at all. Finally, she uttered her name.
"Annabelle..."
With a barely perceptible shudder, the model replied, "Are we done?"
"Yes. We're done."
The brush clattered to the floor. Tears filled the artist's eyes.
The model slowly walked away.
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