I caught her by the shoulder.
Amidst big circles of orange and green and purple and what seemed like the beginnings of a sunset on the canvas.
The black palette-knifed slashes suggested darkened woods and that gentle, spun timelessness that is the essence of dusk, and oftentimes, dawn.
And amidst all that shadow and green grass, there she was. First her right shoulder and arm, and then her knees, sweetly folded.
I painted her body and then her face resting against the tree trunk. Blissfully unaware of the blazing chaos that is a sunset, lost in her own reverie.
I imagined the sun blazing and trembling and threatening to set fire to the world at this blatant disregard for his performance. But then, who’s to say? Perhaps, he glimpsed the soft curve of her cheek and the sweetness, like dew drops, on her eyelids, and with one last sweet caress, descended into his molten lair.
Who’s to say….?