Forbidden

I couldn’t have picked a favorite amongst the non-portraits if I had to. I loved them all equally—daily life of the city and I were partners, always had been. My visions of the energy that flowed on the streets played out in the incredibly detailed canvases before me, and every time I looked at them, they magically transported me to the streets of the town I loved. They were so realistic I would swear I should be smelling the spicy aroma of rich foods, and the earthiness of the flora filling the air all around inside my apartment. Luckily, the subject of my fascination was right outside my door, and I often spent my time—when I wasn’t trudging through my waitress job—letting the city absorb me and then watching it come alive as I mixed colors as vibrant as the city itself, transferring its very essence to canvas with every loving brushstroke beneath my hand.

I never felt as much at peace as I did when I was painting in Jefferson Square or by the river. Everything else—every worry, every dunning phone call, every pang of loss or regret—escaped my soul, and I was left open and vulnerable but safe and sound in the arms of a city I would forever call home.

I always added more to the paintings than just what I saw. Red flowers, or roses in particular—they were a testament to my mother who’d worked hard to keep the family fed, but on those rare days off, she’d spent her time growing roses in the back yard. I never could get over their stark beauty, so I strived to reproduce it, never quite managing to match the images in my mind.

I sat down on the beat-up old couch that also served as my bed many a night since it seemed to make me feel less lonely than sleeping alone in my bed, and flipped on the TV, but my eye was already caught by the canvases that were in front of me. Two portraits—one of my father, and one of Anthony. They were bigger than any of the others. One was still on the easel because I couldn’t resist tinkering with it, although it had been finished long ago. They were both done from memory, one a tribute and the other… the other a sad testimonial to what might have been—to what still lived inside me, and always would.

A sick obsession.

A silly girl’s dream of what she could never have.

They were my best works, and could never, would never be seen by anyone.

The portrait of my father was perfection itself—just as he had been in my eyes. Familiar tears welled as I stared into my father’s clear blue eyes. I’d gotten the curl of Father’s almost white-blond hair, and the ethereal quality of his expression shone through so clearly that it was almost eerie. It was something I’d had to do—a compulsion I couldn’t deny, and I’d painted it six months after my father died, painting for nearly a week straight, barely stopping for food or sleep. When it was done, I had collapsed into a heap on the couch, much as I had this evening, just staring at him as if it held the key to my salvation. It was a masterpiece, and it would never see the light of day. It was mine and only mine.

Anthony, on the other hand, seemed to smolder on the canvas. I’d always wondered why the fabric didn’t smoke beneath the paint. It was him, in all his dominant, self-assured, unbelievably sexy glory. His head was just slightly cocked, chin down, one coal black eyebrow raised the tiniest bit. He really had too big a nose and too prominent a jawline to be considered classically handsome, but that expression would be enough to stop the heart of any woman from eighteen to eighty. That was partly why I almost always kept it at the back of my closet—because that look was just too intense for comfort.

I’d portrayed him the way I always saw him—in crisp slacks and his black shirt—but had taken the liberty of making him look much more rumpled than I had ever seen him. As if he were just recovering from a particularly deep, sexual kiss and was about to reach for me to turn me onto the desk beneath him. The usual black cotton shirt was pulled out of his waistband, several of the buttons of his shirt opened so that it hung just artfully enough to display the smattering of chest hair over the tanned, muscular ripples beneath. He was leaning back against a desk, his arms folded on his chest, and I always imagined that that must be what he looked like just before sex.

That painting wasn’t so much a portrait as a desire unfulfilled. It was the way I wished, in my heart of hearts, that he would look at me.