Jack moved in after we’d been together for a few months. With him came all of his art supplies: his tiny tubes of oil paint, his palettes, his rolls of canvas, and one of the smaller easels from his studio. We dragged the oxblood sofa aside so he could set up in front of the large frosted-glass window that faced onto the street. It bothered me that the couch was no longer the focal point in the room, but I didn’t say anything to Jack.
When we woke that first morning, I followed him to the living room. Stopping at the coffee table, he retrieved a bud of weed from a glass jar, busting it by hand and sprinkling it into a rolling paper. He placed the joint between his lips, allowing it to dangle there as he stood in front of his easel, tilting his head and heaving great sighs of discontent.
He had been fixated on this particular piece since we met. I gazed at him from my perch across the room. He was wearing jeans but no shirt, and his hands were stained with lemon-yellow paint. Lighting the joint, he took sharp, quick inhales, smoke escaping from his mouth, fanning and lingering in the morning light. The sun reflected off the broken mirror hanging on the wall and I shifted my head to get it out of my eyes.
“Something’s missing,” he said, slapping down the paintbrush and turning away from his easel. “I can’t figure it out.”
I pulled my sweatshirt over my knees as I hugged them into my chest, grabbing for my bare toes. The red polish had chipped and needed to be redone. I attempted to conceal them so Jack wouldn’t see the imperfection. “How can I help, baby?”
My eyes traced the chaotic yellow lines, speckled with indigo. I never understood his paintings, but that’s the way it was with us. He couldn’t comprehend the underlying meanings of what I wrote—the poems about my childhood, and the complications of my past—but we admired each other’s talents, and supported one another through a mutual understanding that art was vital.
“No, nothing.” Jack smiled at me. “Just be here with me.”
I sat there all day, drinking coffee and reading poetry by Sylvia Plath. Jack and I spoke very little, enjoying the comfortable silence. The room smelled of dope, cigarettes, and turpentine. My eyes focused on his bare back, pale and smooth, watching as his muscles tensed and relaxed with each stroke of the brush.
Soon it was afternoon, and Jack poured up two glasses of whiskey. He passed me a tumbler and clinked his against mine.
Jack lit a new cigarette using the still-burning end of another and, downing the amber liquid, snatched the painting, letting it fall to the floor. He bent, selecting a blank canvas from his collection piled in the corner, and placed it on his easel. He squeezed a dab of red oil paint onto his palette and, blotting at it with a sponge, he began.
But soon he stopped, setting down the sponge and turning to watch me. His eyes, green and glittery, traced the lines of my lips. He stroked the stubble on his cheek. “You’re my muse,” he shouted, playfully throwing his head back.
He laid his palette on the coffee table and sprang toward me, scooping me up in his arms. I squealed and dropped my book. He smelled of sweat and sap, sharp like the forest. He kissed my face, my hands, my chest, my mouth, over and over until he lay me back down. He returned to his easel with excitement and began mixing red with white and yellow, adding, “I know exactly what I’m going to paint.”