Blank Canvas, part 1 1. It�s the smell of freshly brewed coffee that pulls you out of your slumber. The loft is still filled with shadows, the blinds on the bedroom windows pulled down, making sure no errant sunrays come inside to disturb you. But when the slow tick-tick-tick of the bedside clock makes you turn your head to check the time, you realize it�s too early for that. Five forty seven am. More than enough time to go back to sleep if you wanted to. You can hear Brian moving around the kitchen. Opening cabinets, closing shelves. How intriguing that you wake up to the same sounds now as you did last night. The sounds of Brian tending to the last chores around the loft, locking doors, turning lights off, before he came to join you. Before he admitted that your freaking out at Gus� birthday party had freaked him out too. How hard was it to believe that for that one unruly moment, before you let him touch you? Before you saw his hesitancy and reached out for him with your own hands, urging him to heal you. How hard. And yet how soft was his touch. His hands soothing on your skin, his fingers caressing you carefully, tenderly. That sweet ache still resides inside you, the evidence of Brian being there, loving you, taking care of you, as if you were fragile and delicate and had to be handled with caution and unprecedented care. And yet he was the one who... You suddenly sit up on the bed and frown into the semi-darkness. The only light in the loft is coming from the kitchen and it�s not enough to make your surroundings that easy to see. Still you look down at the floor besides the bed and then push yourself off the bed to stand up and look on the other sides. Nothing. You think of pulling back the bedclothes to see if it is there but you know it isn�t. You look through the slits of the bedroom blinds and can make out the outline of Brian�s form, sitting on a barstool in his blue silk gown. Your eyes following his every move, you slowly sit back down on the bed and observe him quietly�watching his fingers idly play with the rim of the coffee mug, sitting deep in thought, as he slowly sips coffee at this ungodly hour. It�s gone. The scarf that had lain hidden under his shirt all these weeks, stained with your dried, crusty blood, is gone. You pulled it from around his neck last night, its brittle weight like a dirty, shriveled reminder of that night you can�t really remember, as you freed him from its unwelcome burden. You wonder if he has hidden it somewhere or if it�s been disposed off for good while you were sleeping. You know this must be the same scarf that Daphne said he wore the night of the prom. For some inscrutable reason, you are almost sorry it�s gone. For a fleeting moment, you even wondered if you could get it cleaned up for him so that he could wear it again. Except the memory of your blood on it comes back and you realize that you can�t even begin to comprehend what made him wear it for days and weeks under his shirt like that. You know guilt was part of it but was that all? Do you even want to know? How the hell do you assuage someone�s guilt over something you can�t even remember yourself? Well, it�s gone now. It�s better this way. It was only bad memories. Better to bury them, away and out of sight, than to keep thinking about them. You can�t help but wonder, though, if you would ever see it again. ********* 2. It�s the need to relieve your bladder that pulls you out of your slumber. You lie cocooned in the nest of pillows and blankets, your back against Brian�s chest, his nose buried in your skin. He�s snoring softly, his warm breath fanning the back of your neck, his arms wound securely around you even in sleep. You let the memories of last night wash over you. After claiming Brian once again for yourself at his office, and then letting him lay his mark on you once more with a long, hard fuck on his desk, the two of you came back to the loft. To sights and sounds of this place that you�d called home for so many months, and then the taste of his skin beneath your tongue. Everything was like a breathtakingly cool downpour of rain after months of draught. After months of Ethan. The past few months suddenly seem like an easily forgotten memory, as if Ethan didn�t mean anything of consequence, of importance. You now realize that he really didn�t. Ethan was the kind of mistake you vow never to repeat again. You will never again fall for an illusion built on falsehoods and deceit, on empty words and stupid lies. You feel like a world-class idiot for being so naive, for falling for all that bullshit in the first place � to quote Brian. But it doesn�t matter anymore. You have Brian now and he took you back. That is the only thing that matters. You run your fingers over the top of his right hand resting on your stomach, caressing his fingers, and turn your face to nuzzle his shoulder. He stirs in his sleep at this, his long lashes fluttering, and you quickly drop an apologetic kiss on the same shoulder. God, you love the way he smells, the way he moulds against you, the way he tastes. You missed him so fucking much. You don�t want to wake him up at this hour, though. You look at the bedside clock: it�s only five thirty two am. You carefully disentangle your limbs from Brian�s, pulling the covers back up around him to conserve the heat, as you roll out of bed and go inside the bathroom to do your business. As you�re washing your hands and rubbing your wet palms over your face, you suddenly realize there is something that is somewhat out of place. You frown as you pull your hands down and stare at your reflection, your breathing fluttering for a few long moments. Then, with a quiet determination, you turn around, walk out of the bathroom and stand at the foot of the bed to look at him. Brian is still ensconced inside the blankets, snoring softly, unaware of your scrutiny. You leave him like this and walk over to the bedside table, silently inspecting his things: Wallet, keys, watch, a little loose change. A crumpled receipt from the takeout place close to his office. A paid traffic ticket. You feel your frown deepen. You move to the other side of the bed, sitting down on your haunches as you carefully open the drawers. You rifle through the clothes and things there, careful so as not to wake him up, but you feel yourself getting dismayed as you close each drawer and open the next and not find what you are looking for. Finally defeated, you get up and settle back down on the bed. It�s gone. The cowry-shell bracelet Brian got from Mexico, that he always wore on his right wrist, is gone. Now that you think about it, the last time you saw it on him was the night you got it back from his asshole nephew and returned it to him. You put it back on his wrist yourself. You remember how merely touching his wrist had made your heart rate speed. You remember he�d told you to go back to your boyfriend. And now it�s gone. You stare at his sleeping form, his arms clutching the pillow you�d abandoned tightly to his chest, and try to shake the web of confusion suddenly entangling your thoughts. What has Brian done with the bracelet? Did he get rid of it, and if yes, why? Did it not hold significance to him? Wasn�t that why he�d worn it for all those years? Why did he stop wearing it after you brought it back to him? You bite your lower lip in worry, trying to steady your breathing. Could you even ask him? You pull down the duvets and climb back into the bed again, this time moulding yourself against his back. He mumbles as he stirs awake but you press yourself closer to his warmth, kissing his neck sloppily. "Go back to sleep," you tell him as your wrap yourself around his body. "It�s early." He links his fingers through yours, shifting close to you, and promptly falls back asleep. You listen to his breathing, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, and tell yourself to stay calm. Everything is all right. You have Brian. He has you. Nothing else matters. Still, as you snuggle close to him, you have to wonder if you�re ever going to see that bracelet again. ********* 3. It�s the sound of a police siren going off in the streets outside that pulls you out of your slumber. You realize you had fallen asleep on top of the covers, wearing the same clothes you�d worn all day. There is no bedside clock in this room so you check the time with your wristwatch: Five thirty nine am. It�s the morning after your first full night in New York. You wonder what Brian is doing at this moment. Probably asleep. Hopefully, at least. A gust of cool wind makes it�s way inside the room through the half-opened windows and you shiver. It was not as cold when you went to sleep, but it�s freezing now. You kick off the shoes and then reach over to close the window, muting the sounds of the street below. New York weather, unpredictable just like the City itself. You settle back under the bedclothes this time, even though you know trying to go back to sleep would be futile. Your thoughts are too jumbled, too chaotic, too much on edge. There is so much to do, to prove, to accomplish. You realize more than anyone else that conquering the art world isn�t going to be the piece of cake everyone has made it out to be. You are going to have to work your ass off. You�re starting from scratch. You don�t have a college degree. What you do have is your own capabilities, an article by a dubiously renowned critic, and perspective. You also have a man who loves you and who thinks you can triumph over the world just by sheer perseverance and being in the right place. He thinks New York is that place for you, and so do you. Everyone has hammered this into your heads so much now that you know you are going to have to make it work somehow. It only helps that Brian is willing to stand by you as yo...
Mojaunicorn