Picasso's Promise

Episode 47| A Million Questions

Sydney's P.O.V.

The old man, who's name we learned was Henry, was kind enough to offer us something to drink. It began pouring outside, and Henry suggested we wait out the rain indoors. The pitter patter of the water felt soothing, calming my racing thoughts as they chattered away a million questions. I wanted to ask him, so desperately, about my mother and the woman that he had raised. But my teeth were too busy bumping into each other from the cold to really gain much courage to speak.

Picasso had more interests than I did to ask the question, the biggest one, that was causing a storm in my head. "You never said what she got arrested for," Picasso said, "Do you feel comfortable telling us about that?"

"You should talk to her yourself. She accepts visitors," he reached out and wrote down a number. "You should also call her as well."

Could I possibly see her? I couldn't think of what I'd say to her. I wanted to be brave and go on my own. But a portion within, deep inside, wanted to ask Picasso to come with me. I didn't know if I was capable of doing this on my own.

She was my mother and I spent most of my life, thinking she was dead. Was I strong enough to face her alone? Was I able to talk to her without breaking down? I wanted to ask her a load of questions, all of them starting with Why.

Why didn't you take me with you?

Why did you let my father lie to me?

Why did you give up on me?

And more importantly, how could you?

"You didn't answer the question," I barked. Getting annoyed with the way Henry skirted around the inquire about my mother. "What did she do?"

"It's not what she did. It's what she didn't do."

"What do you mean by that?" I asked. "What didn't she do?"

"She didn't fight hard enough for her innocence."

"You're beating around the bush a lot, old man." Picasso said, and I nudged him. "What? He is."

"Old or beating around the bush?" Henry arched a brow. He didn't wait for an answer. "You don't want to know what your mother got mixed up in."

"I'm sure I do," I said.

"What day is it tomorrow?"

"It's the weekend." I replied. "It's going to be Saturday."

"How sure are you that it's going to be Saturday?"

"Pretty sure."

He made a face. "Well that's how certain I am that you don't want to know about what your mother was involved in."

"This is pointless, Sydney," Picasso whispered in my ear. "He's not going to tell us anything."

"I heard you loud and clear - and trust me, I will be telling you everything you need to know. If you come back tomorrow."

Why did we need to come back? Perhaps, I thought, he wanted some companionship and was feeling lonely. The dust that coated the shelves and counters made me wonder when was the last time he had any visitors himself. He probably didn't see anyone consistently - beside for the mail man.

"We're not coming back old man -"

"We will," I cut in. "What time would you like to see us?"

"Anytime after noon should be fine." He hummed with a cup to his lower lip. He sipped the content slowly. "I will be looking forward to it."

****

Picasso took me back to his place when the rain stopped, saying that he wanted to have dinner with me. He had plans of taking me out, going to someplace downtown, and getting us a table at one of my favorite restaurants.

It's a Mediterranean spot, owned by a Middle Eastern couple named the Pejman's.

The husband took care of the savory, main dishes and his wife worked on all the sweet desserts.

My ultimate faves were the coffee donuts and sorbet trio, bright mint, tart strawberry, and velvety lime. You were almost mad at the the size of the donuts and little dollops of sorbet. It was worth it though. Every last bite.

When we got back from the dinner, my body was ready to fall asleep in Picasso's arm. I had already contacted my aunt, making up a lie that I would be sleeping over at Danielle's house. We would be sharing the night together, Picasso and I, and no part of me wanted my aunt to know about that.

Picasso's sister was out for the night, meaning we would be alone. Completely and utterly alone, left to our own devices and temptations.

I was stalling in the bathroom, putting my hair into a set of six braids. I had a method before I went to sleep. If I didn't braid my curly hair, I would only be pissed with myself in the morning.

"Are you almost done? I need to use the restroom," Picasso echoed from behind the door. "No rush."

I threw the door open and saw a shirtless Picasso standing in front of me. His defined muscles flexed under the low light, looking heavenly and smooth. I wanted to brush my fingers against the ripples of his abs, touch the crevice on his neck, and get lost in his warmth.

My mouth popped open as he reached over and brushed my cheek, planting a single kiss on my lips before walking in to the restroom. I exited, letting him have the space for himself. I waited for him at the foot of his bed, playing with my thumbs to distract my thoughts from going somewhere sexual.

It was no use. I went there anyway and I couldn't stop thinking about wrapping my lips around his girth, take him completely into my mouth, and stroke him until he released himself into my throat. I had such a vivid image, burned in my head. I wanted to taste him, all of him, and nothing could hold me off from getting that.

What shocked me was the desperation in my imagination.

I wanted to think of my mind as a tame place, pleasant even, but it was never tame when thinking of Picasso and his body.

Squirming in my seat, my foot tapped impatiently as I waited for him to leave the restroom. I would pounce on him the second he was out. I would devour him, cover him in kisses, and lap up his tongue into mine. When he did exit, I did just that, touch him all over and wasting no time.

"What's gotten into you?" he half-laughed. "You seem excited to see me."

"Excited would be the biggest understatement of the year."

It felt like, in that moment, every fiber of my being was lit aflame. I was burning under his embrace, sizzling with every second that passed.

Somehow, getting close to him felt impossible to complete. I couldn't get close enough to him - not enough with our clothes on at least. Reaching at his pants, I began pulling on the belt that he had on.

"Are you positive?" he asked, seeing my hand undo the zipper. "What is it you want to do?"

"I want you." I said so simply, hoping he knew what that entailed. "I want you inside of me."

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next chapter will be mature.