asks and approaches me from behind. He puts one hand on my shoulder and lines himself up behind me, wrapping his large hand around my small one. He presses down on top of my finger and a stream of black paint rushes at the wall. He moves us forward toward the wall taking gentle steps behind me.
“Are you part of that portrait project? The one against the narco-traficantes?”
His body tenses slightly. He releases the nozzle. Now it’s his turn to ignore me.
He begins again moving us closer to the wall. The stream of paint gets more opaque and wetter and the line goes from blurred to making a perfect circle as he guides me. Then he pulls our arms back and moves the can fast, zigzagging back and fourth. The paint becomes faint spatters making a color graduation as he passes back to the original lines. It almost looks like a gray sunset. It’s striking but so simple.
“So there is a technique to it I guess, huh?”
I’m talking, but it doesn’t matter what I’m saying. Because everything at this point is feeling. Only feeling. We’re touching. Mozey and I are so close and everything is touching.
His naked chest against my back. His exhale on my neck so very close to my ear. The length of his arm against my arm, his hand wrapped around mine, holding my finger on the tiny nozzle of the can. I can smell his sweat with its distinct undertone of cedar. And his breath, slightly chemically from his tokes on the inhaler. His heart beats so close to mine, and I want nothing more than his arms to wrap around me, his warmth to shield me and at the same time seep all the way into me.
I stand rigid and hold my breath, praying he’ll walk away and in the same heartbeat praying he’ll never leave me. Then I feel his rock hard erection press into my butt cheek. He’s big. He’s hot. I want to touch his cock. This is so not okay. My mind snaps to my job and my professional duties.
I jerk away from him and grab the can and throw it in the empty fireplace. I turn to him to scold him for pushing the boundaries. But his back is already turned to me, and he’s rummaging like a madman though his backpack. He looks at me ripping the cap off a red can then he shakes it so hard, I can see his arm muscles ripple. He shakes the hell out of the can all the while staring at me, then he charges toward the wall brushing me back with his arm.
“Stand back,” he says and takes his can to paint.
His arm whizzes fast enough to blur and his lines are superb. He’s got that easily recognizable cholo street style that adorns so many bridges and storm drains all across LA. It’s beautiful what he does, and he’s only writing words with a single color. I already know the man can work small miracles with a canvas.
He takes a step back, surveying his work, his arms crossed in front of him, his chest heaving, and his dark eyes burning.
It’s difficult for me to decipher as it’s highly stylized, but I squint and see my name and then make out “This is Lana’s home she grew up hear!”
My eyes swell with tears that spill over the rim. I’m crying again in front of him, and I want to tell him that I never cry. That I’m the strongest girl he could ever, ever meet. In junior high school, I fell during a track meet and dislocated my knee. I broke two of my fingers when I tried to break the fall. How many tears did I cry that day? Not one. Not one single person witnessed a teardrop fall from my face. I held it all in like a champion. For fifteen proud minutes, I was the school hero, the star of the track meet.
I nod my head and sniffle, and he smiles at my reaction. His smile starts me laughing, and soon I’m doubled over, laughing so hard it’s giving me a side ache.
“What’s so funny?” Mozey asks, looking at me like I’ve lost it and concern washes over his momentary enjoyment of my initial reaction.
“I love it so much, Mozey. I love it—” but now I’m snorting and choking.
“What the fuck, Lana?”
“You spelled
“Are you part of that portrait project? The one against the narco-traficantes?”
His body tenses slightly. He releases the nozzle. Now it’s his turn to ignore me.
He begins again moving us closer to the wall. The stream of paint gets more opaque and wetter and the line goes from blurred to making a perfect circle as he guides me. Then he pulls our arms back and moves the can fast, zigzagging back and fourth. The paint becomes faint spatters making a color graduation as he passes back to the original lines. It almost looks like a gray sunset. It’s striking but so simple.
“So there is a technique to it I guess, huh?”
I’m talking, but it doesn’t matter what I’m saying. Because everything at this point is feeling. Only feeling. We’re touching. Mozey and I are so close and everything is touching.
His naked chest against my back. His exhale on my neck so very close to my ear. The length of his arm against my arm, his hand wrapped around mine, holding my finger on the tiny nozzle of the can. I can smell his sweat with its distinct undertone of cedar. And his breath, slightly chemically from his tokes on the inhaler. His heart beats so close to mine, and I want nothing more than his arms to wrap around me, his warmth to shield me and at the same time seep all the way into me.
I stand rigid and hold my breath, praying he’ll walk away and in the same heartbeat praying he’ll never leave me. Then I feel his rock hard erection press into my butt cheek. He’s big. He’s hot. I want to touch his cock. This is so not okay. My mind snaps to my job and my professional duties.
I jerk away from him and grab the can and throw it in the empty fireplace. I turn to him to scold him for pushing the boundaries. But his back is already turned to me, and he’s rummaging like a madman though his backpack. He looks at me ripping the cap off a red can then he shakes it so hard, I can see his arm muscles ripple. He shakes the hell out of the can all the while staring at me, then he charges toward the wall brushing me back with his arm.
“Stand back,” he says and takes his can to paint.
His arm whizzes fast enough to blur and his lines are superb. He’s got that easily recognizable cholo street style that adorns so many bridges and storm drains all across LA. It’s beautiful what he does, and he’s only writing words with a single color. I already know the man can work small miracles with a canvas.
He takes a step back, surveying his work, his arms crossed in front of him, his chest heaving, and his dark eyes burning.
It’s difficult for me to decipher as it’s highly stylized, but I squint and see my name and then make out “This is Lana’s home she grew up hear!”
My eyes swell with tears that spill over the rim. I’m crying again in front of him, and I want to tell him that I never cry. That I’m the strongest girl he could ever, ever meet. In junior high school, I fell during a track meet and dislocated my knee. I broke two of my fingers when I tried to break the fall. How many tears did I cry that day? Not one. Not one single person witnessed a teardrop fall from my face. I held it all in like a champion. For fifteen proud minutes, I was the school hero, the star of the track meet.
I nod my head and sniffle, and he smiles at my reaction. His smile starts me laughing, and soon I’m doubled over, laughing so hard it’s giving me a side ache.
“What’s so funny?” Mozey asks, looking at me like I’ve lost it and concern washes over his momentary enjoyment of my initial reaction.
“I love it so much, Mozey. I love it—” but now I’m snorting and choking.
“What the fuck, Lana?”
“You spelled
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