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The gallery owner walks over when he hears her overabundance of praise.
“You sound like you have an eye for the arts,” he smiles.
“Oh, she does,” I boast. “Seraphine is an incredible painter.”
“Do tell,” he says with a curious grin. “I am always keen to meet new artists and fellow creatives.”
I can feel Seraphine shrinking next to me, her modesty sometimes getting the better of her. But the truth of the matter is that sheisvery talented, and her work deserves to be shown. Not just hanging inside a teen girl’s bedroom or adorning the walls of a renovated cottage or converted van. Her work deserves its own gallery.
I talk to the gallery owner for a few minutes, trying to explain my impression of how great Seraphine’s art is, but I am definitely no artist, and I fumble over the right words to use. I could talk about software components all day long, and run circles around a coding conversation, but my brain falls short of understanding the arts. Which doesn’t mean that I can’t still appreciate them and know talent when I see it.
Eventually, Seraphine begins to talk and the two of them hold a conversation about all things creative and innovative.
I watch as her face lights up and words flow freely from her mouth, unable to hide the excitement she gets when talking about art. She is meant to create, just like Bella was. And for a moment, it makes me feel bad that I keep her confined to an office job. But I definitely need her help at work, and she definitely needs the money. If things could be less like reality, then I could see her painting her days away in happiness. Sometimes, I wish that money could do more to form entirely new realities. Unfortunately, it’s resigned to mostly decorating the ones that we already have.
“I could see you one day having your own gallery just like this one,” the owner says as he wraps up his conversation with Seraphine before moving on to talk with the rest of his guests.
I can barely hear her remark about how much she would like that as he leaves to go and join another conversation. For some reason, her small utterance that no one heard but me, seems as if it hangs in the air like an important moment.
After an enjoyable evening together, we head back home.
There is a different feeling between us when we get back. The house is empty since Lilly is at her sleepover, and Seraphine’s cottage is all but ready to be lived in again. Something about tonight feels “final” and it presses me with urgency.
“Thank you for such a nice night tonight,” she says. As she drapes her coat on the side of a chair. I nod and don’t say anything because I feel like there is more coming. “I should probably go back to my cottage this weekend. I’ve pestered you and Lilly with my presence long enough, I’m sure.”
This weekend?Tomorrow is Friday, which means that she is only planning to stay for one more day. I knew it was coming, but for some reason, I thought I would have more notice, that I wouldn’t need to think about it until it happened and would then still have time to prepare. But this isn’t a job, and Seraphine surely isn’t required to give me notice.
“Are you sure?” I blurt out. I can feel my handle over my emotions start to loosen.
She nods, keeping her eyes down as if she is halfhearted about it.
“I can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve done to help me,” she says. “And if there is anything that I can do to—”
I don’t let her finish her sentence because I don’t want to hear the feigned pleasantries of being politically correct. I know that I promised myself not to touch her again but it’s too much to be in this house with her alone tonight and know that my time to spend with her here outside of work is coming to an end.
I reach out and grab her face, putting my mouth to hers and pushing my tongue between her slightly parted lips.
To hell with it.
It’s been a wonderful and romantic evening and I am not going to let tonight slip away. She kisses me back and together; we melt into an embrace that feelsdifferentthis time. It feels more important, more urgent, more passionate, and morefinal.I don’t want to think about this being the last time I will be with her in this way; I just want to make it wonderful.
This time, when I make love to her, it is slow and sensuous and filled with adoration. I want to memorize every part of her as I plant soft kisses across her body and trace my fingers over her supple skin. I twist my fingers in her hair and press myself into the depths of her until she shakes with pleasure. My bodyachesfor her, and I can’t get enough. I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight as her muscles contract around me. I shudder in response before I take my own pleasure. When we are done, I wantmore.I reach for her, and she immediately arches up, ready for me. We can’t get enough of each other, and it feels like both a beginning and the end.
After what feels like hours of love-making that I still can’t get enough of, we fall asleep in each other’s arms. It all feels so perfect, and I know from experience that perfect things tend not to last.
In the middle of the night, Seraphine jolts awake and runs into the bathroom.
I can hear her retching from the bed.
“Are you all right?” I ask as I walk over to stand next to the closed door and check on her.
After a few minutes, she comes out, looking pale and tired but otherwise no worse for wear.
“Yeah, I’m not sure what that was about but I feel okay now. Maybe my insides were jostled about by all of the sex,” she teases.
“I don’t think that’s actually a thing,” I chuckle. “But I’m glad you’re feeling better now.”
We both get back in bed and the rest of the night seems to pass within a blink of sleep. But in the morning, Seraphine wakes up and is sick again.
