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Daphne moves, and I move with her.
Everything about her says that she wouldn’t mind. Every time she’s touched me. Every time she’s kissed me. Every time she’s been on her knees for me, or in her frame. She doesn’t see me as broken or lacking.
When I’m with her like this, I don’t feel broken.
I dance with her all afternoon.
The sun sinks down into the ocean outside. She called it down from the sky and set the waves ablaze. The fire beneath her brush grows. It simmers. It sparks. It speaks to the inevitable end of every fire, which is ash and smoke and destruction.
I’m part of her work, whether I like it or not. She expects me to be touching her. I lose track of who’s leading and who’s following. What I know for sure is that I’m the one who struck the match.
It’s a masterpiece.
And my little painter is happy. At peace. To her, it’s not the end of the world. After all, water can be as destructive as fire. If the ocean broke its bounds and came up to the house, all my things would drown. Death by seawater. The interior would fold to the forces of nature. The earth would wipe itself clean.
The sunset dies in the diamond ocean. The sky turns dark. In the morning, we’ll be one day closer to spring.
Daphne paints for another two hours.
She’s slowing down. Detail work. She touches me more often as she gets tired.
I feel the moment she finishes.
A certain energy goes out of her shoulders. Her wrist. Daphne drops the paintbrush onto the easel shelf and turns, holding her arms out to me.
I take her from the floor, and she wraps her arms around my neck. Buries her face in my shoulder. Her body relaxes instantly. She’ll be asleep soon, even if I don’t put her in bed. Even if I don’t lie down next to her and love her.
“You didn’t have to wait for me,” she murmurs. “You didn’t have to stay.”
“Where would I have gone, little painter? You’re the whole world.”
