What the hell is this?
Looking back over my shoulder, I glance around. No one is there, but it's not every day a random package shows up out of nowhere at my door.
Turning on the light, I drop my mail and keys on the small table in the entryway. My fingers explore the outside of the package, tracing and squeezing, trying to figure out what it could be.
It's thin, no more than the width of a single subject notebook. Firm around the edges, but not completely solid across the surface.
Ping.
My phone goes off in my pocket. Digging it out, there's a text message from a number I don't recognize. Opening up the message, my brows dip in hard to the bridge of my nose.
Did you get your package today?
Holding it up, I look between my phone and the wrapped curiosity in my hand.
Maybe. Who is this? I text back.
Open it up, then you'll know.
Placing my phone down, I slowly pull back the taped corners. My jaw drops and my eyes shoot open as I hold something so amazing and beautiful in my hands.
She actually did it. Sia sent me a piece of her art.
My stomach jumps into my throat knowing she didn't forget me. Siobhan didn't delete my information, she didn't shrug me off and chalk our night up as one she'd rather forget. This painting in my hands is proof.
Deep earthy tones swirl across the canvas, with different shades of greens and blues. Dark gray and glistening gold streaks create contrasting layers that jump out at me.
The longer I stare at it, the more I can see mountain shapes in the background. There are textures to the paint. Thick layers over thick layers that make it look like it's climbing off of the canvas. In the bottom right corner is her signature. She signed it Sia, using the tail of the A to dot the I with a heart shape.
This is me.
Not in the sense of an actual portrait. But the browns and golds, the grays and blacks, they remind me of myself. They're my colors. These colors literally stain my skin, and the mountains around me.
It's the dirt I work in. The oil that soaks my skin. And the world that walls me in.
It's beautiful. Hitting send, I can't take my eyes off it.
I sit down in a chair at my kitchen table, and grab the paper it was wrapped in and start to crumble it up. A few loose pictures fall out on the floor. I pick them up and turn them over in my hands. She also sent me some photos of other work she's done.
One is of her in a gallery, her smile glowing as she stands next to a giant painting of a blue flower. Another is of an old woman sitting on a bench. The entire image is done in charcoal, the only color is the bright blue of the old woman's eyes.
She's talented. These are incredible.
You really like it? she texts.
I do. I'm blown away.
Sorry it took so long, but I wanted to send you something special. Something that's you.
You made this for me?
I did. It's a one of a kind. She sticks a smiley face emoji at the end.
It's perfect. I text. And I mean it.
Thanks.
When you said you like to paint, I could have never imagined this.
Is that a compliment? It better be a compliment.
Chuckling to myself, I relax back in my chair. It's not an insult. Shooting back my message, I follow it quickly. How's city life?
Boring. Lol.
I can hear the sound of her giggle. My body heats instantly, sending blood straight to my cock. I'm almost fully hard. Not that it's a change from any other day. I haven't woken up without morning wood once these past few weeks.
No matter how much I jerk off to get rid of this ache in my core, it never works. Now she's reached out to me, and my heart is racing, my palms are sweaty, and my dick is twitching.
Well let's make it less boring. I text. How about you send me a pic of the heels you have on today.
I watch the small bubbles as they move across my screen. They're going for longer than I expect, making me question if I jumped too quickly for her, and crossed some invisible line she's drawn between us.
Ping.
An image pops up on my screen. It's her legs held up and crossed with a pair of yellow heels. It's the first time I notice the other small tattoo she has on the top of her foot close to her toes. I'm not sure how I missed it before.
Squinting, I zoom in, but I can't make out what it says. What does your tattoo say?
I shut my eyes in order to see. It's a quote from an artist named Paul Gauguin. It's hard to read because it's written in French.