Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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I blame it on the tequila — the languid numbness still warming my skin, tingling the tips of my fingers, hazing my mind. Though I know deep down this feeling has nothing to do with the residual effects of the liquor and everything to do with the man holding me close, his arms a vise of strength and security, even while he's asleep.
The undisturbed rise and fall of his muscled chest beneath my cheek is nearly enough to lull me back to sleep, but I will myself to stay awake for a little bit longer, to live in this moment for as long as my tired eyes will allow as my still-tingling fingertips trace the planes and divots of his abs while the early morning sunlight streams in through the crack in the curtains, illuminating my path.
When my route veers away from his deeply muscled stomach toward the ink tattooed onto the side of his abdomen instead, my touch grows reverent, inspired by the seemingly infinite artwork spanning his bronzed skin. They're breathtaking, genuinely gorgeous pieces of art that I wish I had the talent to sign my own name to.
I've traced, admired, and even attempted to recreate the art in my sketchbook a few times but it never seems to do the real craftwork on his skin justice. I've never asked where the inspiration for each one comes from. What each one means. Though I think it's safe to assume that each piece of art etched into his bronzed skin is an allusion to the different pieces of literature that have made a lasting impact on him. There are scenes of ships burning on churning seas, a Greek statue cracked and fractured, a compass melting in a marbled hand, a map on fire, and what almost looks like faded longitude and latitude lines beneath it all. It's all done in fine, delicate lines, so precise that I'm in awe of the skill it must have taken to create. And the pain he must have endured to have each perfectly inked piece of art embedded into his skin.
These pieces are dripping in emotion. In words, feelings, and fears unspoken by a man who seeks out literature in a desperate attempt to understand the world around him; to understand himself. A man who does not see himself the way I do, the way the rest of the world would if he let his armor fall long enough to be seen. Truly, fearlessly, with the kind of vulnerability he's spent his entire life armoring himself against.
But if he did...he'd see what I do.
I smile at the thought, at the irony of it all.
A masterfully painted expanse of midnight sky.
A piece of the universe that can't see its own beauty. Its own magnitude. Its own light.
Tracing my finger along one of the longitude lines that disappear beneath the churning sea, I startle at the feel of Micah's hand sliding up my back. My cheeks warm when I realize I've woken him, though my apology is lost on my tongue when he palms the back of my neck and massages the base of my scalp gently.
I turn my cheek to bury my head against his chest, sighing contentedly at the exquisite feel of his fingers kneading away the diluted pressure that's been building in my head since I opened my eyes.
