A Slip of the Hand

Chapter 34

I shuffle through my pile of in-progress canvases, each floppy and unstretched and none of them quite suiting my mood. This one... is too yellow. Yellow's too mellow, too calm for how excited yet anxious I feel. I think most of these will end up in the bottom of my closet with the other unfinished pieces, not even worthy of being hung in my bedroom.

I measure and cut a square of primed canvas from the large roll leaning against the far corner.

Holding a charcoal stick loosely in my hand, I let it dance around the canvas to Mickie and Kevin's driving rhythm. It makes the blank surface less intimidating. I can already see some shapes forming and finding a flow.

It was just sex. Just one night. Not a big deal. I need to pretend it never happened, and if anyone ever asks me about the best sex I've had, I can mumble something about the time I almost came while fucking Greg last year.

Fuck, Daniel knows what he's doing. Or, at least he figured out how my body works...

I throw the charcoal down with a sigh, realizing I've covered much more of the canvas than intended. I spray it with fixative, resigned (for now) to see where it takes me.

And things with Oliver have been super fun. Setting boundaries, pushing those boundaries in the pursuit of pleasure... it reminds me of high school. All those intense make out sessions because we weren't gonna take it further, feeling terrified and eager for each new experience...

Daniel had to have been lying—just joking around—when Mickie asked him that same stupid question and he answered it the same stupid way. But why did he have to say my name when Mickie asked... I guess to make me uncomfortable. Taste of my own medicine. I was just telling the truth, though. But maybe it's better to lie about little things like that? Like earlier when I said I was entangled. Maybe I just don't feel entirely recovered from it, and that's what I meant. Or maybe there's a part of me that wanted to lie to keep Oliver on his toes.

"This looks like shit," I mumble to my canvas. I fold it and crumple it together in a fit of frustration, but when I smooth it out again, I notice that the wet fixative has transferred the charcoal wherever the canvas touched together, and it's created a visually interesting pattern. The movement of the piece catches me, too. I can almost see the frustration I feel.

Perhaps this piece is going somewhere after all. I want it to be vibrant yet moody, matching how I feel, and begin layering Payne's gray, burnt sienna, and pyrrole red, letting the colors run together to create a lovely bloody maroon.

Yes, this is going somewhere.