Monday, November 24, 2008
When I awoke she was sprawled across the end of the bed, already dressed. She was leafing through the pages of an art book: images of a raw Australian landscape, paintings and photographs, among them some of mine.I stretched and stifled a yawn. She looked up and smiled. I wasn't sure what time it was. The room was dim, the curtains closed; it could have been late at night or just before dawn. I sat up slowly, then reached out to touch her. There were small scars on her olive skin; they looked like ones I'd gotten as a kid from running carelessly through the bush. Her feet were broad, her toes slightly splayed, the feet of someone who rarely wore shoes. The floor beside her was littered with drawings I'd made of her face and well-toned body. "What do you think?" I pointed at the book.She turned a few pages to an acrylic painting by a well-known, older artist. "This one... not bad," she replied. She was right – it wasn't. She reached out and pulled the white cotton sheet down from my shoulders, baring a breast. With a slender index finger, she pressed the nipple as if it were some kind of button, then giggled. "I go now," she said. She stood up, shuffled her feet into cheap rubber flip-flops and tip-toed to the door."I'll talk to you later." I said.She looked at me almost sadly. "Maybe. I'll see."We never saw each other again.