Paris and the Paintbrush

He was always reluctant, but he clearly needed the rumpled twenty dollar bill, transferred palm to palm.  It was the only time I touched him.  I liked to linger.

“Here?” he asked, though he well knew where to be, standing in front of the broad, open window.  I know he hated that window - that vulnerability - that was why he always asked. 

“Yes,”  I said, and settled onto the stool.  I liked triptychs.  I liked how the wings of the window pane spread out behind him, purple in the moonlight and sparkling with the small patio lights I strung in the trees outside.  I liked him, spreading out the front of his coat and letting it drop to his ankles, puddling around his feet before he awkwardly kicked it and his tatty sneakers away.  “Like this,”  I said, and held up a book for him to see in the dim light.  As he pulled off his shirt, he leaned forward to peer at the picture. 

“I can’t do that,”  he said.  In my other hand I cupped the camera.

“Use the coat rack to hold on to,”  I directed, pointing to the heavy iron stand by the door.  He dragged it over, and took some time finding a way to recreate the frantic drape of one arm around an eagle’s neck, and the weightless appearance of struggling naked legs in mid-air. 

“What’s that one called, anyway?”  he asked, his voice tight with the effort. 

“The Rape of Ganymede,”  I answered.   As his expression grew confused and worried, I took my shots. 

Once alone again in my studio, with the coat rack standing erect and alone in the wings of the bay window, I selected my thickest paintbrush.  I always did like to work with oil. 

-Originally posted on Reddit