She’s brush in hand, clutching a canvas, work drying around her, she’s in a hoody, the grey contrasting against the cream of her thighs and again against the splodge of yellow acrylic on her nose, specks of paint flecked over hands and skin.
Music on, both singing, giggling, working furiously in the throes of a muse. it’s a type of insanity, the writer and the artist, struck by passion.
Half empty, cold tea-filled mugs forgotten or used to clean brushes, pens cast aside dead, inkless. Pizza boxes, crusts left, now posed service as palates. Menus for take-out covered in scrawled notes.
Drained, they are dancing now, fuelled by another insanity, moving, rising, falling, joyously together amidst the paper.
Moving together, filled with a new muse, gasping, crying out, shaking, shuddering, pain, but a deliciously unbearable fly, can’t be painted, can’t be described, captured in imitations, gratifying exhaustion. They curl, together, amid the paper, using discarded sketches and drafts as a blanket.
As the rays of early morn pierce through the window the two dress in that awkward gawky way of emerging lovers, finding his specs on top of a menu for an Italian promising never closed, always ready. Finding himself ravenous, not eaten for days, gripped by wild inspiration they head out for the evening meal, at breakfast time.