The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Six

"Excuse me?" She looks surprised, but not horrifically so. My spirits lighten.

"I want you to be the subject," I repeat. "You can pick the media - photo, canvas, mixed. Whatever you prefer. But I pick the subject - I always pick the subject." Which in this instance would be her.

Oh, who the fuck was I kidding, in most instances it was her.

"And what does that entail exactly? Being your subject?" She looks uncertain. Like she needs convincing.

"It means you'll be the art. So if you don't like it when it's finished then you'll be at least partly to blame." I offer her a small pointed smile.

Her mouth tilts up at one corner, playful, and she nods. She's quiet for a long time, fiddling with her fingernails, pensive and thoughtful. I'd give everything I own to know what her thoughts are. Then, to my surprise, she laughs. The sound makes my cock tighten - as though a hand is wrapping around it. A pale, long-fingered hand with no nail polish.

"Something funny?" I have to try hard not to smile because her laugh is infectious, beautiful. Course it fucking is. Light and airy, like the sound of birdsong echoing off trees.

"Not really." She shakes her head, which makes her hair fall back over her shoulder to expose a long slender neck. I wonder how she smells right there. In that space between her throat and her shoulder. Hadn't thought about that in a long time. "It's just that I actually modelled once before, a long time ago. I mean not modelled, modelled." She looks horrified. "I mean for an art class one summer. A friend told me it was easy money."

"You did?" My heart-rate starts to pick up and I cover my mouth with my hand in what I hope is a casual way.

"Yes. God, I'd almost forgotten about that entirely. I stood, then sat, then lay, for four weeks whilst a group of complete strangers stared at me."

"Six weeks." It slips out without a thought. Fuck.

"What?" she looks perplexed. No wonder. Fuck sake Foley.

I shrug. "I mean those kinds of summer classes. They run for six weeks normally. I took one once." Fucking tool.

"You took an art class?" She asks, eyes wide.

"You look surprised." Which was good. Which meant she hopefully hadn't figured anything out.

"I am. I wasn't aware they taught your kind of art in summer classes?" She smiles. It's a genuine heart-stopping smile. I think my heart actually stops for a fraction of a moment.

When I get my breath back, I shake my head and smile. "They don't. My stuff is just an evolution of what I learned in that class. A friend of my aunt ran it. She said it would keep me out of trouble one summer. It did," I shrug, feeling awkward. Exposed.

What was I doing telling her things about my life? Things that could lead her right to my fucking door. Eloise continues to smile at me. It occurs to me then that Eloise Airens' smile may be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. A force of nature in its ability to awe and debilitate. She's smiling at me, not unlike the way she'd smiled in that wedding photo. How the fuck did I manage that?

"How old were you?" She asks, curious.

I scratch the back of my head. "Eh, eighteen I think..." What the fuck am I doing? Why am I still talking?

"Me too,' she nods. 'How strange? Us both taking an art class when we were eighteen. Though I'd imagine art classes in Northern Ireland were a completely different affair from the one I modelled for."

I nod. "Full of northern Irish folk, and petrol bombs," I quip.

She gives me a horrified look before I laugh and she covers her mouth and does the same.