Bare Art (2 page)

“Yes.”

“Did they make the gap in the bridge?” Matt wouldn’t have asked such a question. He would have suggested that she “fill in the middle bit” so that the figures in the painting could “get busy.” When their zygote divided into two separate beings, clearly Pete had taken all the artistic bits with him.

“I don’t know,” Claire said. “Maybe they made it, or maybe it was already there when they noticed each other.”

“Why is it sunset?”

“It felt right.”

“The end of an opportunity?”

“I should paint the moon rising in the background.”

“Full or fingernail sliver?”

“Definitely fingernail.” Claire opened up another paint tube and began adding the crescent moon to the area just above the bridge.

“You’re putting it on the left?”

“Yes.”

“Are they facing south?”

“Uh, I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Never mind, they’re facing each other.” Pete furrowed his brow in thought. “You’ll have to let me touch it when it’s dry. I can’t tell what kind of perspective you’ve used.”

“You can touch my rough copy.” Claire led him over to the large piece of paper she had tacked to the wall. It was just a pencil drawing with a few shades of color marked in with pencil crayon. She put his hand on top of hers and traced the lines, showing him approximately where the bridge was and the angles she’d used for the surrounding buildings.

“What’s the river like?”

“I haven’t painted that part yet. I’m not great at doing moving water.”

“You should do craters,” Pete said. “A long space of empty craters.”

“They don’t have to be empty.”

“But that would suggest that the people broke up, instead of just meeting under shitty circumstances. There’d be memories and stuff in the pockmarks.”

“Ew. Moratorium on the word ‘pockmark’.”

Claire showed him where she’d added in elements that weren’t included in the rough copy—the moon, a piece of litter, and a lamppost. Their arms touched each other from hand to mid forearm, and Pete didn’t feel a sleeve. She might be painting in a tank top, or maybe in her bra and underwear.

“Out of curiosity, are you painting naked today?” He hadn’t heard any of the telltale clothing sounds—no fabric brushing against itself, twisting against the pull of human joints; no swishing when she moved.

“Yeah,” she said, completely unashamed. “That doesn’t weird you out, does it?”

Pete lowered his hand from the rough copy and turned to face her. “Why do you paint with your clothes off?”

“Because.” It sounded like she was going to stop there. “Having people look at my art makes me feel naked. This is practice. If I can stand this, I can stand for people to look at my
paintings
.”

“You use Matt as a test audience?”

“It doesn’t matter if anyone looks at me or not. It’s the sense of being naked. There’s something taboo about it, and it sets me on edge. After that, the nerves that come with a gallery showing are peanuts.”

“Doesn’t it affect your art, painting while you’re nervous?”

“I feel...exposed. That’s good for art. Art is supposed to expose something.”

“As a method it’s a little extreme.”

Claire laughed. “You should try it some time. You might like it.”

Pete wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Nah.”

“Your brother has seen me naked a bunch of times. I think the novelty is even starting to wear off.”

Pete snorted. “Don’t count on it.” He could picture them as old men, bored in a nursing home, and Matt still talking about Claire’s perfect body.

Claire laughed. “My point is: would you like to look? Maybe then you can riposte when Matt asserts that I have the best ass ever.”

“Why doesn’t it bother you more that he talks like that?”

He heard her shrug. “It’s flattering.”

“What if he tries to do more than talk?”

Claire thought on that for a moment. “I think, for him, part of the appeal is that he knows I’d never sleep with him. He can look all he wants, but touching is forbidden.”

“That’s probably why you shouldn’t let me look,” Pete said. “Looking equates to touching.”

“I don’t know that I’d forbid anything, with you,” she said quietly. Pete held his breath for a moment. That was quite an offer, and one that he wasn’t sure he wanted to take. Claire made it sound that this wouldn’t be about evening the score with Matt, or about pushing the bounds of vulnerability in art. But there was also desire on her part, and he wasn’t sure that he could reciprocate it in a way that would be respectful to her. Besides, Claire was his roommate. Pete was a firm believer in not pissing where he ate.

“Think about it,” Claire said. She stepped away, back to her easel. “While I paint, if you like. Then it’ll really be like being on display.”

She picked up her brush, loaded it with paint, and began filling in the blank space under the bridge with craters. Empty ones.

Pete thought it would be rude to leave. Walking out would be tantamount to throwing Claire’s offer back in her face, so he moved closer to the easel instead and watched her paint. She was making small, careful brushstrokes, each of them a soft tap against the canvas.

He could touch her, he thought, and be polite about it. Maybe just once was enough to satisfy her. Pete reached out and laid his hand on the back of her head. Her hair was down, warm and soft. Matt said it was black, but he hadn’t mentioned that it ran all the way to the middle of her back. Pete’s hand didn’t stop when he reached the tips of her hair. It kept moving lower, down the curve at the small of her back until it rested at the top of her tailbone. An inch lower, and he’d cross the line into inappropriate
territory
.

Pete moved back up to her hair, combing his fingers through it. Her hair behaved like warm silk. He followed a lock of it down her shoulder and along her forearm. The hair stopped just below where her elbow bent to balance her palate.

“You like my hair?” she asked softly.

“It’s longer than I thought it was.” Pete had heard it swishing when she moved, but most women had hair that did that.

“I need to wash it,” Claire said.

Pete didn’t think. He leaned forward and pressed his nose to the back of her head and inhaled her
scent
. She smelled like a woman, not like perfume or manufactured soap.

“I don’t think you need to,” he whispered. He started to gather her hair in his hand for another sniff when he caught himself and let her go, embarrassed.

“Keep looking,” she insisted. “It helps.”

“What are you painting?” he asked, chagrined.

“Craters,” Claire said. “What do you think made them?”

“Accident.”

“
Not
fate?”

“I think the universe is too indifferent by nature for fate to have a role.” Pete curled his fingers into fists to keep himself from touching her again.

“Put your hands on my waist.”

“What?”

“You can rest your hands there and it won’t get in the way of my arm.” Claire was right handed. Pete was a lefty, and she knew this. He reached out, careful not to brush the skin below her waist, and settled his left hand opposite her stronger side. Her hipbone was perfectly round and jutted out slightly. It would be the perfect place to grip during—

“My hands aren’t too cold?”

“Your hands are perfectly warm,” she assured him. “I can feel your calluses.”

Pete moved his fingertips back and forth slightly, brushing the badges of a dedicated string musician against this intimate part of her body. The reality of her hip wasn’t
dirty.
It was intimate because it was a spot for a lover to touch, to brush, to grip and kiss and know the smell of.

Peter wanted to smell her hair again.

“Do you have tattoos?” he said, trying to fill the silence.

“Not yet.”

“What do you plan to get?”

“I’m not sure
.” When she moved the tips of her long hair brushed his forearm where it crossed her back. “But when I think of the design I’ll want on my body for the rest of my life, I think I’ll know.”

“Same goes for body piercings?”

Claire set her brush down and took his hand off her hip. She guided if around her waist, across the flat plane of her stomach, to rest on top of the stud in her navel.

Pete traced the ball at the top with his fingertips. The lower part of the stud had a dangling ornament, warm from being close to her skin.

“Piercings come out,” she
said
. “Less of a commitment.”

Pete left his hand on her belly. He almost had her in a proper hold, the way his arm curled around her from behind. Tentatively, he brought his other hand up to rest on her right hip.

Her brush was making sharper movements against the canvas, and with them, firmer sounds.

“Am I bothering you?” Pete asked.

“No.” Claire touched the hand on her belly and gently guided it upwards, leaving it at the bottom of her ribs. “I want you to really look.”

It was the most blatant invitation she’d given him so far, and Pete was tempted to take it. He leaned in once more, first, to smell her hair a second time. That, he thought, was how a woman should smell. His hand on her front crept higher, under her left arm and into the valley between her breasts.

It was more of a groove, he realized, than a valley. Claire’s breasts were small. He could have placed a teacup over each one and they would have fit perfectly inside the porcelain.

Pete refrained from touching her breasts right away. He rested the edge of his thumb against her right breast. The bottom of her left rested on his wrist.

“This is just looking,” he murmured. Claire didn’t answer. If he’d been paying attention he would have noticed that her brushstrokes had stopped, but his attention was solely focused on the weight of her right
breast in his hand. It
had the perfect shape;
nipple
already peaked before his thumb could greet
it
.

Claire took a step back. The entire length of her naked body came up against his clothed one. The curve of her backside pressed against his thigh, and the arch of her back nestled against his lap like they were interlocking puzzle pieces. Claire tilted her head back, resting it on Pete’s shoulder.

Pete pulled in a great breath. This had gone beyond looking. It was sexualized; not least because of the way his arousal was fitted against her smooth back.

Pete took a step backwards and his foot collided with a paint can. “Oops, sorry.” He stepped to the side to correct himself and his foot landed in a pile of laundry.

Claire caught Pete by the arm, forcing him to be still for a moment. “You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Um. Good luck with the painting.” He turned away from her and left, hand outstretched so that he wouldn’t embarrass himself by walking into the doorframe on his way out.

Claire stood there for a moment, watching him go. Pete went all the way to the end of the hall, to his bedroom, and shut the door. It would have flattered her if he’d turned on some music to drown out his need to release the tension, or decided to take a shower in the middle of the day. It disappointed her when she heard him pick up his cello instead.

Claire set down her paintbrush and closed the door. Pete might have been able to deny himself release, but Claire d
id not feel the same way. As strains of classical music filled the apartment, s
he lay down on her bed, closed her eyes, and imagined that he had not stopped touching her.

*

“Something’s wrong,” Matt said shrewdly. “You’re painting with clothes on.” It had been a conscious decision on Claire’s part to wear old sweats while she painted. Pete might not have been able to see the difference, but Claire wanted to put him at ease. With the clarity of vision that preceded the euphoria of orgasm, she’d realized that she’d been out of line with Pete. She’d made him uncomfortable, even though she’d enjoyed every minute of it.

“It’s not as warm in here as it usually is,” she said.

Matt nodded decisively. “I’ll turn the heat up.”

Claire laughed, pretending to be more amused than she felt. “Leave it, the utilities bill is high enough.”

Pete avoided her for most of the day. He kept to his room, practicing music and catching up on his reading. When Matt made dinner he took a plate to his room, insisting that he had a project that he urgently needed to work on.

“Dude, you’ll get oil on your cello,” Matt said. He’d made garlic bread with extra cheese to accompany their pasta.

“It’s a written assignment.” He went into his room and shut the door behind him.

Matt turned to Claire. “What’s up his ass?”

She shrugged. “If it’s important, I’m sure he’ll bring it up in conversation.”

Pete’s hermit act continued for the rest of the week, culminating in nothing but suspicion on Matt’s part. His brother even refused to participate in the weekly apartment tradition of overdosing on
unhealthy food
and watching
American Idol.