“Tomorrow,” she says. “Tomorrow, I want eight of these.”
“They’re just starting to ripen.”
“You really brought me the first ones?”
“Uh huh.”
“You’ve overwhelmed my objections, Mike Cavendish, you fiend,” she says dramatically. “Obliterated them, even. I’m going to end up eating all of these for dinner,” she mutters and tosses another one into her mouth. “More, more, more!” she calls.
“Done,” I say, glad to have her on my side. I take the stairs three at a time, then my steps slow when I see that the door is open to Sylvia’s new studio. There are lamps on inside and the light is rosy. It’s cool up here and otherwise dark. I can’t hear anything except Merrie banging around downstairs in the kitchen, and I wonder if Sylvia’s fallen asleep.
No. She’s at the easel, drawing.
I stop in the doorway. I always liked to watch her work, though she prefers to be unobserved. I can only admire how intently she concentrates, how she seems oblivious to everything except her art. She has a still life composition on a table in front of her and is reproducing it in pencil. There are no shadows or shading: it’s a line drawing but as accurate as a photograph.
The arrangement of items is both predictable and not. This is also Sylvia’s sorcery: she tells a story with a collection of items. This fascinates me.
At first glance, the composition looks like the remnants of a solitary meal with items from the bistro: a saltshaker on its side, a spill of salt on the dark wood table, a small peppermill. There’s a plate with a crust of bread, and a knife with butter smeared on it, angled on the plate. There’s a bit of Merrie’s paté on the plate, too, with half of a green apple, a piece of hard cheese with a bite missing. The rind from the rest of the apple is neatly left on the plate, too. There’s a small dish of mixed olives, oil on the lip of the dish, maybe with one or two missing. The small wine bottle is empty, while the wine glass has the barest bit of purple in the bottom and a lip print on the rim. There’s a folded newspaper to one side, something circled in what might be a page of advertisements. One napkin cast aside. A second plate and place setting, the napkin still folded, the clean wine glass upside down.
It’s not just dishes, but a story. I wonder what background she’ll add to it, because that will tell more. Right now, I’m amazed that pencil lines could convey so much texture and such a strong feeling. Sylvia’s drawing looks more lonely than the items do themselves and I can’t figure out how she’s done it. There’s a yearning in her work that I want to understand.
There’s also Sylvia herself to watch. She’s wearing a pair of faded jeans that cling in all the right places and a cotton T-shirtthat clings to her curves. She’s wearing those flip flops again, her tanned feet almost bare, her soles sticking slightly to the sandals as she moves.
Because she moves, all the time, as if she’s dancing with the easel. The pencil stays on the paper, moving steadily toward its goal, but she takes a little step one way or the other, shifting her weight and altering her view of the subject. Her hair is pulled up in a sloppy ponytail, loose tendrils on the back of her neck, and I want to strip her out of those jeans and make love to her until she moans aloud. Until she’s wrapped around me, whispering my name. Until I feel her clench around me, all sweet softness and heat, and know that I’m exactly where I belong.
But I don’t want to interrupt her.
So, I stand there with that bouquet of flowers and watch her pencil move across the page, simmering quietly as she finishes the outline of the dish of olives. It looks as though she started in the center, maybe with the plate, and moved outward. I wonder how much more she’ll add, but suddenly she lifts her pencil away and turns.
Sylvia must not have heard me because she looks startled for a moment. Then she smiles. “How long have you been there?”
“Not long. I didn’t want to disturb you.” Belatedly I remember my gift. “These are for you.”
Her eyes light as she moves to take them from me, her gaze roving over the flowers. “Oh, they’re beautiful. Zinnias!”
“Are they? I just asked Pat for a bouquet.”
“And dahlias,” she says fingering the petals of a red flower. “It’s too early for these to bloom.”
“Pat’s the one with the greenhouses of flowers.”
Her gaze returns to the blooms, as if I’m not the only one who is nervous. “Thank you,” she says quietly, then goes to find a vaseand some water.
I’m not sure what I should do next. We should have gone for dinner or to a show together. We should have ended up here, not started here. It feels like I just came for sex, which I kind of did, but that’s not all I want and I’m not sure how to make that clear. I walk around the space a little, admiring how big it is. Sylvia comes back and places the flowers on a smaller table, one beside an armchair.
I can’t even look at the purple chaise lounge.
“They’re exactly what I needed, Mike. Thank you.”
We face each other, the silence of sixteen years between us. I can’t imagine a bigger obstacle. “I, uh, was thinking that we should have exchanged numbers. Then I could have let you know when I could come by.”
“I didn’t think you were coming. Not now.”
I’m too late. “Mondays are long days,” I explain. “Sorry. I should have said. I’ll go and let you get back to your drawing.”
She stops me with one hand on my arm when I would have stepped past her. “I didn’t ask for your number either. It’s not your fault, Mike.”
“But it’s still too late.”
