to exist as I’ve known her. As I’ve rebuilt her. Like losing my sight, Levi Michaelson will remake me. He will rebuild me from the broken pieces, reshape me from the fragments. Make me whole and right and beautiful again.
Or he will completely and utterly destroy me.
When he leaves me just inside the door to my apartment, his fingers lingering as they cling to the tips of mine, I wonder why the hell I’m not running in the opposite direction.
********
I wake early. I forgot to close the blinds before I collapsed onto the bed and fell into a deep and turbulent sleep last night. And just like anyone else, the bright sun streaming into my face wakes me. I can’t see anything beyond that brightness, of course, but I can still tell when it’s morning if the sun is shining.
I don’t get dressed, and I don’t get coffee. I slip out from under my tangled sheet, wearing nothing but my old Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, underwear, and socks, and I pad into the third bedroom.
Shortly after we moved in, we converted it into a studio for me. Since I can’t see, lighting isn’t important, so I can work from virtually anywhere, as long as it can hold my supplies, which this room easily can.
I slide onto my stool, the smooth wood caressing my mostly bare butt, and I reach for the quick-drying white paint that I use to line with when I’m in a hurry. With an urgency I’d rather not delve too deeply into just yet, I begin to draw.
Normally, I paint things that I’ve seen before or that I can piece together from things I’ve seen before. Landscapes are fairly simple. Animals, celebrities, people I saw when I had my sight. But I’ve never tried to paint a person I’ve never seen.
Until today.
I don’t know what Levi looks like. I know what he feels like, and what he feels like he looks like, but I have nothing more than what I touched and what he and Cherelyn have described to me to go on.
But I have to try.
He’s swirling through my head in swipes of color and wedges of light. He’s tingling at the tips of my fingers in the smooth tan of his cheek and the firm square of his jaw. But more than that, he’s burning through my blood in bold crimsons and hot oranges, like flames licking along my veins.
Furiously, I sketch, my foot tapping impatiently as I wait for one section to dry so I can feel it, feel my progress, and add the details that will make him come to life. At least I hope they will.
My interpretation of him might not look anything like his real face, but I know I have to try. I have to commit him to canvas like I’ve committed him to memory.
I don’t know how much time has passed when I hear Cherelyn’s voice from the door behind me. I jump, which is unusual. Normally I hear her coming from three rooms away.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Even she is surprised. I can hear it in her tone. “You want coffee?”
“No, thank you,” I tell her. I don’t really mean to, but the moment I answer her, I dismiss her. I’m already drifting back to my canvas, body, heart, and mind. I’m once again losing myself in Levi Michaelson’s gorgeous face.
I don’t know how long after that it is that I hear someone else at the door. Not a single word is spoken. It doesn’t have to be. The instant he clears his throat, I feel his presence. It’s like static. Warm, frenetic static that teases my senses and sets my nerves on edge.
Slowly, I turn on my stool to face the door. My belly flutters violently. I’m hyperaware of what I’m wearing.
And what I’m not.
His tone is low, a gruff rumble in the darkness of my world. “If I could paint, this is what I would paint.”
My stomach flips over at the sound of his scratchy, softly spoken words.
“What?”
“ You. I’d paint you. Just like this. Sitting in the dark, wearing a T-shirt and socks, hands covered in paint, hair wild and messy.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like art.
Or he will completely and utterly destroy me.
When he leaves me just inside the door to my apartment, his fingers lingering as they cling to the tips of mine, I wonder why the hell I’m not running in the opposite direction.
********
I wake early. I forgot to close the blinds before I collapsed onto the bed and fell into a deep and turbulent sleep last night. And just like anyone else, the bright sun streaming into my face wakes me. I can’t see anything beyond that brightness, of course, but I can still tell when it’s morning if the sun is shining.
I don’t get dressed, and I don’t get coffee. I slip out from under my tangled sheet, wearing nothing but my old Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, underwear, and socks, and I pad into the third bedroom.
Shortly after we moved in, we converted it into a studio for me. Since I can’t see, lighting isn’t important, so I can work from virtually anywhere, as long as it can hold my supplies, which this room easily can.
I slide onto my stool, the smooth wood caressing my mostly bare butt, and I reach for the quick-drying white paint that I use to line with when I’m in a hurry. With an urgency I’d rather not delve too deeply into just yet, I begin to draw.
Normally, I paint things that I’ve seen before or that I can piece together from things I’ve seen before. Landscapes are fairly simple. Animals, celebrities, people I saw when I had my sight. But I’ve never tried to paint a person I’ve never seen.
Until today.
I don’t know what Levi looks like. I know what he feels like, and what he feels like he looks like, but I have nothing more than what I touched and what he and Cherelyn have described to me to go on.
But I have to try.
He’s swirling through my head in swipes of color and wedges of light. He’s tingling at the tips of my fingers in the smooth tan of his cheek and the firm square of his jaw. But more than that, he’s burning through my blood in bold crimsons and hot oranges, like flames licking along my veins.
Furiously, I sketch, my foot tapping impatiently as I wait for one section to dry so I can feel it, feel my progress, and add the details that will make him come to life. At least I hope they will.
My interpretation of him might not look anything like his real face, but I know I have to try. I have to commit him to canvas like I’ve committed him to memory.
I don’t know how much time has passed when I hear Cherelyn’s voice from the door behind me. I jump, which is unusual. Normally I hear her coming from three rooms away.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Even she is surprised. I can hear it in her tone. “You want coffee?”
“No, thank you,” I tell her. I don’t really mean to, but the moment I answer her, I dismiss her. I’m already drifting back to my canvas, body, heart, and mind. I’m once again losing myself in Levi Michaelson’s gorgeous face.
I don’t know how long after that it is that I hear someone else at the door. Not a single word is spoken. It doesn’t have to be. The instant he clears his throat, I feel his presence. It’s like static. Warm, frenetic static that teases my senses and sets my nerves on edge.
Slowly, I turn on my stool to face the door. My belly flutters violently. I’m hyperaware of what I’m wearing.
And what I’m not.
His tone is low, a gruff rumble in the darkness of my world. “If I could paint, this is what I would paint.”
My stomach flips over at the sound of his scratchy, softly spoken words.
“What?”
“ You. I’d paint you. Just like this. Sitting in the dark, wearing a T-shirt and socks, hands covered in paint, hair wild and messy.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like art.
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