Art and the Artist

He watched her lying there sleeping, her arm over her hip, her leg splayed across the bed. There was no sheet, just her nude the overhead fan blowing her long brown hair slightly, partially hiding her right cheek. There was something about watching her just sleep. He loved looking at her body, inspecting every inch of it. He loved touching just one body part at a time, her arms especially.

It was the softness, kissing the inside where it bent sent chills down his spine. Some loved feet, others toes or the neck. There were all kinds of places one could find on the body to entice but to him, the arm and hands were a story within themselves. There was something noirish with them, almost suspenseful.  He could tell what kind of personality a woman was by the way she held her arms and hands. Insecure, she held them in front of her crossed. Dominant, she would have them on her hips proudly. A submissive woman would have her hands folded in front of her with her head down as well. A carefree woman would walk with her hands behind her back.

He watched when they were preoccupied, much like a voyeur, as they would reach for that one item on the top shelf. He enjoyed it when he was asked to participate in assisting when they couldn’t reach, as he would accidently brush up against their softness. Some men would take advantage of this and brush against their breast, but he just wanted to feel the gentleness of the arm or the smoothness of their hand, as he would reach them whatever it was they needed.

It wasn’t like he had been stalking her or anything. They had just been in the same place at the same time, and he noticed her. No, she hadn’t noticed him not in the least. In fact, she had spent hours in the museum without noticing him.

He had gotten there early in order to explore the photographic works of Oliver Valsecchi. His art form was fascinating in the way he used his human subjects. He most loved Les Couples. The way the camera captured the interaction was perfection.  He had not noticed her at first, as she was sitting quietly in the corner on a bench studying the La Seine at Vétheuil by Claude Monet. He observed how she would lean in from her perch and cock her head first one way then the other. She would write something down on her note pad, adjust her spectacles and get lost yet again within the work of Monet. He smiled to himself and as he were watching a silent movie she would squirm, shifting her weight, move her foot, stick out her tongue as she wrote. She then would readjust her glasses, push a stray strand of hair that had fallen loose from the brown bun that was pinned upon her head. She would frown, bite her lip, erase what she wrote, dust her note pad and start all over again. He watched her for more than a few minutes before moving on to the next exhibit in the other rooms.  

He had all but forgotten the girl until the Egyptian room when he had heard her small footsteps make their way near the statue of the great god Anubis. He tried not to be too obvious in his stares, but really couldn’t help noticing the form of her body, the way she held herself as she stood straight as an arrow. She was shorter than he thought at first, but he guessed that you really couldn’t tell when a person was sitting just how tall they were. Her blouse was yellow, button up and tied in a knot at the top of her faded jeans, the first two buttons were undone showing just a hint of cleavage. More of her long brown hair had come undone, cascading down her back from the pin that was holding the rest haphazardly in place for the time being.  She once again leaned in and investigated her subject with the utmost proficiency of a detective, and as she turned around, he finally got a glimpse of the most captivating blue eyes he had ever seen.

She smiled at him. At first, it was a half-smile of a preoccupied mind. Then as she began to realize he was not a part of the exhibit a genuine smile began to form on her pretty round face.

He could feel his face getting hot, for a few reasons, one being found out, and another being embarrassed at not knowing how to start a conversation in this manner. He was a shy type of man although one would not think this of him if they just judge him by his demeanor and stance. He held himself quite well, almost intimidating at times on the subway, as one would have to be if they lived in the city.

He was tall, dark skinned blue eyed and all the girls thought him to be nice looking. Rugged good looks were how his last girlfriend put it, but he never saw it. He did try to keep in shape and loved riding his bike through the busy streets and alleyways when there was time. He was not one to gloat on appearances; rather he enjoyed the inner sanctum of the mind when it came to a relationship. For that reason, Pam never worked out. She was ravishing with long silky blond mane, brown eyes and very long legs, but she really didn’t have much going for her in the intelligence department. Sure, she was a college graduate, but she hadn’t learned all the skills it took to be a conversationalist expounding on the virtues of the philosophers of the ages. Her main interest was high fashion and money, what was Haute Couture for the coming year and what would be rack approved for the local stores. His interest was more of the esoteric nature and those things undiscovered and yet unseen by the naked eye. He loved debating the theories of quantum physics as well as listening to others talk of their paranormal experiences.

He believed in other beings, never disputed the company of a higher existence and loved listening to the battle tales at the local veterans’ home he volunteered at. His ex on the other hand believed nothing that he spoke of believed only what was in front of her and detested the sight of anyone past the age of forty without a bank account big enough to choke Kim Kardashian.

Needless to say, the romance quickly faded when he denied her permission to be on his bank account and credit cards. He saw her once after that. She was with a rich British exec from London. He was doting on her, fawning over her beauty and grace and how well the diamonds set off her neckline.

“Hello.” He began. “I saw you back there at the Monet, did you like it?” he inquired.

She smiled even bigger, catching him off guard completely at this point, him not expecting that at all. She then held out her hand, and he suddenly took it in his own, bending down, he kissed it gently, his tongue slightly tasting the top of her middle knuckle. He could feel himself getting  aroused and tried not to think of it as he glanced at the surprised look on her face.

“Enchante’ mademoiselle” he said in his best French accent grinning  “Ummm My name isssss Claudee Monet? Meybee vouss like my work no?” he pretended to take his hat off and bow to her making her break out into laughter.

She curtsied to his bow finally speaking in such a lyrical voice, “Mr. Monet, It is such a pleasure to meet you sir! I adore your work!”

He could not help but smile, feeling quite a bit foolish with this charade and much like a schoolboy, but he couldn’t help but continue. “And which of my werks of art deed vous find that vous liked?”

She held her finger up to her right temple and playfully tapped, thinking. “Well, I did enjoy The Luncheon very well. But there was A Pathway in Monet's Garden at Giverny that I’m really fond of because of the use of the purple.” She smiled bashfully at him as he blushed once again, not understanding why his heart was racing so. After all, she was just a girl in an art museum.

He took her by the arm and hooked it in his. For all she knew he could have been a serial killer, but still she looked at him with those pools of azure that would melt Ted Bundys’ heart.

“Then what say…” he looked at her for a moment at a loss for not knowing her name as she picked up on his hesitation

“Alice. My name is Alice Wonder.” She smiled again.

“Then what say we shall sit down and have a spot of tea and expound on the virtues of my paintings and such? I will tell you about the grief I felt while painting The Boat Studio.”

“You felt grief while painting that?” she questioned.

He cocked his head. “Not so much grief as sea sickness can’t stand being on a rocking boat you know…”

“And what happened with your French accent there Mr. Monet?” she poked, smiling up at him.

He smiled and sighed theatrically, “Gone with the wind I suppose, just gone with the wind..”

They both laughed as he pulled out the café’ chair for her and motioned the server over to order the tea.