The Portrait

The man closed his fist about his music, then glanced for the umpteenth time upon the eyes of coal that seemed to bore into his conscience. Would they have chosen him to stare upon were these opening hours rather than closing, and other souls gathered in the room to return the painting's stern gaze? The man was vain enough to believe so. These eyes were for him, the only witness to his perfect crime.

He offered the painting a devilish grin, the toothy smirk chastising his two dimensional companion with a weasel-like air. "No other eyes to see, and you're not talkin', Pal. Are you?" His smile interrogated every aspect of the thought without a word passing his lips. Pulling his feet off the ground, the man stretched out, back flat upon the bench, hands tucked triumphantly behind his head. No. The painting would never talk.

He shook the feel of the eyes from his shoulders, allowing his lids to shutter over his own gape. Behind the shade of skin he saw her. Strikingly sexual. Smooth, enticing features equipped with a set of sterling eyes. Ebon ringlets, which framed an intoxicating cold gaze, danced wildly over slender shoulders in seductive coils. She always wore red. And the lips that complimented her choice in crimson never talked. Sensual. Discreet. His.

Other thoughts followed her image, and the man found it difficult to steer his hand away from the awakened creature beneath his pants. Every inch of his body tingled with expectation, eager for her arrival. Stiffly, he swung his legs over the bench and placed his hands on his knees. The last ray of sunlight glinted off the band adorning his left hand as its farewell light sunk beneath the sill of the window. He knew the ring wouldn't bother her, but somehow, as he stole another glance to the painting on the wall, he was certain it would bother him. Impressions left from a light perspiration cupped the place on his knees where his hands had just been, and the nervous sweat caused from his erotic thinking allowed the band to slide easily from his finger. He tucked the cool circular metal into his pant's pocket and shivered as his hand, just remotely accidental, brushed against something on the other side of the thin material.

His eyes made contact with the man in the painting.

He had an uncanny urge to shout at the eyes. To sink his fist into the scornful gaze of oils that formed those piercing black holes. The man paced furiously, his footfalls dull thuds upon the swirling marbled floor. Each time his back turned from the painting, he could feel its gaze burning spheres into his flesh, and each time he faced it, he became consumed with guilt.

He paused.

Within the moment's stillness, he stared upon the portrait.

The portrait stared back.

Getting a hold of himself, the man clenched and released, clenched and released his fist about the keys. The jagged objects in his hand bit softly into his palm, and he could feel where the teeth left slight indentations in his skin. He imagined that the bite marks were caused from the painting. Perhaps if he would have the courage to touch it, the crusted art would come alive, eager to make its first living meal out of the flesh upon the man's hand.

He took a few steps back. The eyes followed his brief movement. He took a few steps more. The space was soothing, yet the eyes still followed. He chuckled uncomfortably. The painting didn't share in his comical relief. Its taught lips never budged. Its abyssal midnight stare never blinked.

Overhead, a security light in the ceiling shimmered into existence, summoned by the approaching darkness outside the window. Illumination seemed to cascade from the heavens like a beam pouring through a heavily clouded sky. The proverbial light shown directly unto the penetrating burden of those eyes. It was more than the man could bear. Thrusting his fist behind his head, his chin bawling up in a bothered grimace, he prepared to launch his keys into the space between the portrait's eyes.

Click click. Click click. Click click.

The windup was good, but the pitch was never released.

Click click. Click click. Click click.

Swiftly he lowered his hand, tucking the keys into his pocket. The clicking sound, along with the slide of the metal down his leg, rekindled his previous excitement.

Click click. Smile. Click click. Red.

He took one last look over his shoulder at the painting. Its eyes still bore into him, but somehow he had trouble believing he was actually going to defile a piece of art. The man winked at the portrait.

"Lucky Bastard", he chuckled in a whispered breath.

Click click, click click. Red pumps upon a marbled surface.

"Did you say something?", erotically crimson tiers questioned.

The man grinned wolfishly, his gaze finding a new picture to delve into. This one slightly more pleasing.

"I said, ‘I'm a lucky bastard'."

The woman purred, "That you are."

Her silvery gaze caught a glimpse of the portrait on the wall, and even as the man scooped a warm arm beneath her own, she couldn't help but shiver.

"I have something for you," said the man. Grinning like a schoolboy, he patted his pocket, the muffled chime of the keys ringing within.

The woman chortled darkly, pressing herself close enough to him to feel his excited heartbeat race in thumps against her chest. Her eyelids slid seductively over silver half moons. Fingertips, iced with blood-red color, smoothed down his neck, over his chest, and eased laggardly into his pocket.

The man shivered. Behind him the portrait watched, unnoticed this time.

"Well," his voice a shuddered gasp, "That too."

The warmth of her fingertips released her "other" gift, then curled about the jingle in the depth of his pocket. She withdrew the keys.

"Prestige," she crooned, her tongue tracing the pearled whites of her teeth as she read the hotel inscription upon the key-chain.

Painted revelation was the only thing that followed the adulterer out the door that evening. It went easily undetected. Lust is a protective cover against the conscience.

Sweat. Red. Heat. Red. Pleasure.

Amidst it all the eyes were forgotten, left to hang in the museum where they belonged.

The night turned into day. The day into weeks. The weeks into months. Red had been true to her stereotype. Things remained discreet. The circular gold band again hugged the man's left ring finger. He still thought of his affair, but could be assured no one else did. Sometimes he even allowed himself to imagine her while in bed with his wife. He enjoyed the sex exceptionally well those nights. As did his spouse.

Flowers. Red roses spilled volcanically upwards from a crystal vase. Candlelight dinner. Calender. An indelible marker was used to circle a date as well as print carefully a charming red ten.

"Happy anniversary, Love."

A matching gold band glinted majestically in the soft flickering light. Beneath it, a large package was held.

"I knew you'd adore it the moment I saw it. It seemed to call out to me."

Brown paper crinkled dryly to the floor.

Horror. Guilt. Madness. Sweat.

"What's the matter, Love? You're pale."

Remembrance. Red. Eyes. Coal.

"I'll hang it over the mantle. Don't you think it would be perfect there? We can see it all the time that way."

Swallow. Nod. Perspire. Avoid the eyes.

"I love the way it seems to tell the truth. Silly I suppose. Don't you feel that way, though, Love?"

Avoid them if at all possible.

"Really, Dear, you look pale. Are you quite all right?"

Not possible. Shake. Sweat. Scream . . .

Bio:
For me writing is a means to escape the chaos of every day life. By casting burdens unto fictional characters, it makes our own existance seem a bit more acceptable. Within each word, each phrase, each character lies a piece of myself as well as a smidgeon of fantasy dying to be born into creation where even though it may not breathe the essentials of life, at least it can experience the exhilarance of being read. There within lies the secret to my being, as well as the metamorphasis of thoughts into something more than an unlived fathom.

E-mail: rataliion@aol.com

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