Portrait of a Kiss

I bet he loved his job, painting all the pretty women that lined up on the street. They all adored him but they didn’t know just how shallow he really was. He would strut along the pavement on audition day:

“Too skinny, too ugly, you look like a boy...”

He was one to talk with his round belly, balding head and bad personal hygiene. These young women were paying him to paint their portrait. It was disgusting. I changed my mind about the audition and headed off down the street. A young man, not much older than I turned the corner a few yards ahead. I pulled my coat in tighter and bowed my head. I prayed to God a gust of wind wouldn’t blow my jacket up, exposing my scant under garments beneath my thick grey pea coat. The man doffed his golf cap and I smiled politely under my flapper hat, not making eye contact. I walked on, my heart thudding with worry as I imagined my backside being revealed by the unkind breeze but it almost stopped dead when he spoke.

“Ma’am?”

I froze on the near deserted street. Why did he want to talk to me?

“Excuse me?” he called again. His voice was soft and gentle. I turned slowly toward him.

“Yes?” My voice was thin.

“Did he reject you?”

His curious words caught me off guard. “I-I’m sorry?”

“If he rejected you he is a moron.” He was so sincere.

“Oh.” I lifted my head a little higher. “Well, no, he didn’t reject me. I left.” I tilted my hat so I could see him better. He was a handsome man with a square yet soft jaw and smiling grey eyes. Loose brown curls protruded from the bottom of his cap. He wore beige slacks and a waistcoat, his hands in his pockets. His rolled up sleeves exposed his forearms.

“You have beauty and brains.” His smile lit up his face like lights on a stage.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” I felt rude asking but he seemed as if he knew Mr Westley the unsavoury artist aforementioned.

He extended his hand. “I’m Jonathon Wicks, Mr Westley’s assistant.”

I shook his hand gently, as all ladies do. “Evelyn Scott, it’s a pleasure.” I withdrew my gloved hand.

“Evelyn, what a beautiful name. Why are you leaving?”

Now I smiled, more to myself. I’d tell him the truth.

“Mr Westley is a pervert and I don’t even like his art.”

“That's a bold first impression. Then why were you auditioning?” A cheeky grin crossed his ridiculously handsome face.

My only response was to blush. He laughed heartily.

“Let me show you my own art.”

“You’re an artist?” I scoffed.

He shrugged. I spied his hands. They looked soft and delicate, his nails all short and even. They were creative hands.

“What kind of art do you specialise in?”

“I paint nudes.”

I turned away in disgust but he grabbed my arm gently.

“Mr Wicks! Take your hands off me!” I didn’t yell but he should have understood I was rather displeased with his uncouth behaviour towards a lady.

He pulled me in closer to his face. He smelled sweet and I was surprised to find I didn’t feel the need to pull away.

“I’m only asking you to look, Ma’am.”

I examined his diamond like eyes. They were so kind and gentle looking. Eyes like these didn’t lie. He released my arm and turned away. I followed him, as he had expected.

His studio was small but bright and airy. A red velvet chaise stood in the corner, shimmering in the sunlight that poured in from the window like liquid gold. A plain wooden stool sat before the open window and an empty easel and a table of brushes, jars and tubes of paint at its side took up the rest of the floor space. A closet full of canvases spewed colours of the rainbow, predominantly peach, bared buttocks and breasts the main theme.

I stepped closer to the canvases while Jonathon placed the easel to the side. His paintings were wonderfully tasteful and the realism of their faces captured my heart.

“These are incredible,” I whispered, looking through the art.

Jonathon stepped inside the small room and began fishing through the frames. He pulled out a somewhat small piece portraying a black haired woman reclined on the velvet chaise. Every tiny detail was painted so intricately, he must’ve studied her for countless hours.

“She is stunning,” I gasped, reaching to the frame for a closer inspection. Indeed she was with her full red pout, dark eyelashes and amazing blue eyes.

“She isn’t real,” Jonathon confessed with a smile.

“Pardon?” I said, a little surprised.

“I didn’t use a model for the painting, for many of these paintings. These are women in my head.”

I stared at him in bewilderment, clutching the canvas. “I don’t believe you!”

“But you must! I normally paint portraits of the interesting but less attractive women that pass through Mr Westley’s studio.” I set the black haired woman aside as he pulled out a less than perfect girl. Her eyes were staring in different directions – one inwards, one straight ahead - but she was very pretty. Again the detail was incredible.

“Paint me,” I instructed, folding my arms and facing him.

He pursed his lips and pulled them to the side ever so adorably. He folded his arms and examined me from a comfortable distance.

“What are you wearing under your coat?”

I willingly opened it and pulled the shoulders back. A black silk bustier and matching knickers and suspender belt covered the majority of my torso. However, my stockings were uneven and my shoes were splattered with dirt. My attire was a little saucier than I would have intended for an unknown artist. I was slightly embarrassed by the state of my shoes. My tram had stopped right by a puddle and two unruly boys splashed mud on me.

Jonathon, unperturbed by the feet turned away and stood by the window in thought. I buttoned my coat and perched on the nearby stool. I too gazed out the window, waiting patiently for a response. Scant drops of rain sparkled in the orange sunlight.

“I’ll do it.”

“All right,” I smiled, folding my hands. “What would you like me to do?”

He tugged the chaise over to the window and I moved out of the way and removed my coat. The fresh air dried my sticky arms. He carefully positioned the lounge so the light was just right then began rummaging through a box under the table of brushes. He pulled out a red boa and wound it around my neck. I went to remove my hat but he shook his head.

“Leave that, it’s perfect.” His words were just a whisper. “Lay down for me.”

I slid onto to the lounge and he began arranging my limbs like a puppet. I giggled as he fiddled, the boa's feathers tickling my nose. He rearranged that too and stepped back a few paces.

“Now don’t move.”

He fetched a blank canvas from the closet and settled it on the easel. He opened his waistcoat and unfastened the buttons on his shirt then began sketching with a piece of chalk, his face peeking out from the white fabric frequently. He then exchanged the chalk for a brush and began dabbing it in the pools of black, red, yellow and peach. His eyes followed the lines of my face along with his brush. He worked silently, beautifully. The San Francisco summer rain pitter-pattered gently on the rooftop creating a special kind of music. It was very relaxing, laying in the sunshine listening to nature's music. Occasional drops of golden rain sprayed me unexpectedly from the open window. Jonathon’s silver eyes examined my face, my body so professionally. His forehead glistened and he wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The room had become stuffy with the heat and rain.

Several moments later Jonathon threw his brush on the table in annoyance.

“I have to stop,” he called through the canvas. He sounded very disappointed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, still not moving in case he changed his mind.

“This weather is too wet, the paint isn’t drying enough and the colours are blending. You can relax now, Miss Scott.”

I sat up and removed the infernal feather boa that not clung to my skin. I covered myself with my coat, even though I was insanely hot, and joined Jonathon by the easel. He lit a cigarette and the smoke danced in circles. He stood with one hand by his head, the cigarette hugged by his index and middle fingers while his other hand met his bent elbow. He examined his work. I too looked to the canvas. My mouth opened.

“Jonathon!” I gasped.

It was absolutely stunning. In the short time I was laying there he had a nearly finished painting of me, navel up gazing out the window. He captured my brown waves of hair wonderfully, my red lips and pointed chin. My dark lashes and thin brows were almost identical. I could see his interpretation of sun's golden rays across my face. The paint still shone wet and fresh. I noticed the sections where it began to mash - between the red from the boa and the black from my bustier.

“Once the details go into the eyes, the nose... and then finish the rest, it will be better.” He mumbled when he spoke, his disappointment apparent.

“Better?” I shrieked. “You are so talented! You are much better than that fat old man!”

He smiled coyly as he inhaled a smoky breath.

“If you’re flattering me because you have no money, please stop.”

“I am not joking, Mr Wicks. You are gifted.” I said this as seriously as possible but he still chuckled softly.

“All right, if you insist.” He turned to his brushes and began cleaning them.

“I do insist. Please, let me come back so you can finish it. I will pose again for you whenever you like. Please, Mr Wicks. I want to help you. I want to get your name out there so that everyone can enjoy the beautiful art you bring into this world.” I sounded desperate, and I was.

He shook his head as he rinsed his brushes, wiping them in the direction of the fine bristles. His cigarette hung precariously between his lips.

“Fine. You may pose for me again.”

“Thank you!” I cried victoriously, grasping his arm. He set his clean brushes aside and turned to me. “How can I pay you? How much do I owe?”

“Never mind the money,” he muttered with a dismissive wave of his cigarette laden hand. "I don't want it."

“No, please. It’s the least I can do.”

He lowered his hand from his face after taking a long drag. He blew the smoke towards the window out of the corner of his mouth.

“You want to pay me?” he asked with a lopsided smile.

I nodded.

Then he leaned forward and kissed me ever so gently with a slightly open mouth. His lips lingered on mine for a moment long enough to feel the wet warmth of his face soak into mine and the scent of his subtle cologne to dance in my nostrils. He slowly pulled away leaving me dazed and wordless.

That cheeky smile crossed his face again.

“Consider your debt paid.”