Portrait of a Kiss

I bet he loved his job, painting all the pretty women that lined up on the street. They all adored him but they didn’t know just how shallow he really was. He would strut along the pavement on audition day:

“Too skinny, too ugly, you look like a boy...”

He was one to talk with his round belly, balding head and bad personal hygiene. These young women were paying him to paint their portrait. It was disgusting. I changed my mind about the audition and headed off down the street. A young man, not much older than I turned the corner a few yards ahead. I pulled my coat in tighter and bowed my head. I prayed to God a gust of wind wouldn’t blow my jacket up, exposing my scant under garments beneath my thick grey pea coat. The man doffed his golf cap and I smiled politely under my flapper hat, not making eye contact. I walked on, my heart thudding with worry as I imagined my backside being revealed by the unkind breeze but it almost stopped dead when he spoke.

“Ma’am?”

I froze on the near deserted street. Why did he want to talk to me?

“Excuse me?” he called again. His voice was soft and gentle. I turned slowly toward him.

“Yes?” My voice was thin.

“Did he reject you?”

His curious words caught me off guard. “I-I’m sorry?”

“If he rejected you he is a moron.” He was so sincere.

“Oh.” I lifted my head a little higher. “Well, no, he didn’t reject me. I left.” I tilted my hat so I could see him better. He was a handsome man with a square yet soft jaw and smiling grey eyes. Loose brown curls protruded from the bottom of his cap. He wore beige slacks and a waistcoat, his hands in his pockets. His rolled up sleeves exposed his forearms.

“You have beauty and brains.” His smile lit up his face like lights on a stage.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” I felt rude asking but he seemed as if he knew Mr Westley the unsavoury artist aforementioned.

He extended his hand. “I’m Jonathon Wicks, Mr Westley’s assistant.”

I shook his hand gently, as all ladies do. “Evelyn Scott, it’s a pleasure.” I withdrew my gloved hand.

“Evelyn, what a beautiful name. Why are you leaving?”

Now I smiled, more to myself. I’d tell him the truth.

“Mr Westley is a pervert and I don’t even like his art.”

“That's a bold first impression. Then why were you auditioning?” A cheeky grin crossed his ridiculously handsome face.

My only response was to blush. He laughed heartily.

“Let me show you my own art.”

“You’re an artist?” I scoffed.

He shrugged. I spied his hands. They looked soft and delicate, his nails all short and even. They were creative hands.

“What kind of art do you specialise in?”

“I paint nudes.”

I turned away in disgust but he grabbed my arm gently.

“Mr Wicks! Take your hands off me!” I didn’t yell but he should have understood I was rather displeased with his uncouth behaviour towards a lady.

He pulled me in closer to his face. He smelled sweet and I was surprised to find I didn’t feel the need to pull away.

“I’m only asking you to look, Ma’am.”

I examined his diamond like eyes. They were so kind and gentle looking. Eyes like these didn’t lie. He released my arm and turned away. I followed him, as he had expected.

His studio was small but bright and airy. A red velvet chaise stood in the corner, shimmering in the sunlight that poured in from the window like liquid gold. A plain wooden stool sat before the open window and an empty easel and a table of brushes, jars and tubes of paint at its side took up the rest of the floor space. A closet full of canvases spewed colours of the rainbow, predominantly peach, bared buttocks and breasts the main theme.

I stepped closer to the canvases while Jonathon placed the easel to the side. His paintings were wonderfully tasteful and the realism of their faces captured my heart.

“These are incredible,” I whispered, looking through the art.

Jonathon stepped inside the small room and began fishing through the frames. He pulled out a somewhat small piece portraying a black haired woman reclined on the velvet chaise. Every tiny detail was painted so intricately, he must’ve studied her for countless hours.

“She is stunning,” I gasped, reaching to the frame for a closer inspection. Indeed she was with her full red pout, dark eyelashes and amazing blue eyes.

“She isn’t real,” Jonathon confessed with a smile.

“Pardon?” I said, a little surprised.

“I didn’t use a model for the painting, for many of these paintings. These are women in my head.”

I stared at him in bewilderment, clutching the canvas. “I don’t believe you!”

“But you must! I normally paint portraits of the interesting but less attractive women that pass through Mr Westley’s studio.” I set the black haired woman aside as he pulled out a less than perfect girl. Her eyes were staring in different directions – one inwards, one straight ahead - but she was very pretty. Again the detail was incredible.

“Paint me,” I instructed, folding my arms and facing him.

He pursed his lips and pulled them to the side ever so adorably. He folded his arms and examined me from a comfortable distance.

“What are you wearing under your coat?”

I willingly opened it and pulled the shoulders back. A black silk bustier and matching knickers and suspender belt covered the majority of my torso. However, my stockings were uneven and my shoes were splattered with dirt. My attire was a little saucier than I would have intended for an unknown artist. I was slightly embarrassed by the state of my shoes. My tram had stopped right by a puddle and two unruly boys splashed mud on me.

Jonathon, unperturbed by the feet turned away and stood by the window in thought. I buttoned my coat and perched on the nearby stool. I too gazed out the window, waiting patiently for a response. Scant drops of rain sparkled in the orange sunlight.

“I’ll do it.”

“All right,” I smiled, folding my hands. “What would you like me to do?”

He tugged the chaise over to the window and I moved out of the way and removed my coat. The fresh air dried my sticky arms. He carefully positioned the lounge so the light was just right then began rummaging through a box under the table of brushes. He pulled out a red boa and wound it around my neck. I went to remove my hat but he shook his head.

“Leave that, it’s perfect.” His words were just a whisper. “Lay down for me.”

I slid onto to the lounge and he began arranging my limbs like a puppet. I giggled as he fiddled, the boa's feathers tickling my nose. He rearranged that too and stepped back a few paces.

“Now don’t move.”

He fetched a blank canvas from the closet and settled it on the easel. He opened his waistcoat and unfastened the buttons on his shirt then began sketching with a piece of chalk, his face peeking out from the white fabric frequently. He then exchanged the chalk for a brush and began dabbing it in the pools of black, red, yellow and peach. His eyes followed the lines of my face along with his brush. He worked silently, beautifully. The San Francisco summer rain pitter-pattered gently on the rooftop creating a special kind of music. It was very relaxing, laying in the sunshine listening to nature's music. Occasional drops of golden rain sprayed me unexpectedly from the open window. Jonathon’s silver eyes examined my face, my body so professionally. His forehead glistened and he wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The room had become stuffy with the heat and rain.

Several moments later Jonathon threw his brush on the table in annoyance.

“I have to stop,” he called through the canvas. He sounded very disappointed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, still not moving in case he changed his mind.

“This weather is too wet, the paint isn’t drying enough and the colours are blending. You can relax now, Miss Scott.”

I sat up and removed the infernal feather boa that not clung to my skin. I covered myself with my coat, even though I was insanely hot, and joined Jonathon by the easel. He lit a cigarette and the smoke danced in circles. He stood with one hand by his head, the cigarette hugged by his index and middle fingers while his other hand met his bent elbow. He examined his work. I too looked to the canvas. My mouth opened.

“Jonathon!” I gasped.

It was absolutely stunning. In the short time I was laying there he had a nearly finished painting of me, navel up gazing out the window. He captured my brown waves of hair wonderfully, my red lips and pointed chin. My dark lashes and thin brows were almost identical. I could see his interpretation of sun's golden rays across my face. The paint still shone wet and fresh. I noticed the sections where it began to mash - between the red from the boa and the black from my bustier.

“Once the details go into the eyes, the nose... and then finish the rest, it will be better.” He mumbled when he spoke, his disappointment apparent.

“Better?” I shrieked. “You are so talented! You are much better than that fat old man!”

He smiled coyly as he inhaled a smoky breath.

“If you’re flattering me because you have no money, please stop.”

“I am not joking, Mr Wicks. You are gifted.” I said this as seriously as possible but he still chuckled softly.

“All right, if you insist.” He turned to his brushes and began cleaning them.

“I do insist. Please, let me come back so you can finish it. I will pose again for you whenever you like. Please, Mr Wicks. I want to help you. I want to get your name out there so that everyone can enjoy the beautiful art you bring into this world.” I sounded desperate, and I was.

He shook his head as he rinsed his brushes, wiping them in the direction of the fine bristles. His cigarette hung precariously between his lips.

“Fine. You may pose for me again.”

“Thank you!” I cried victoriously, grasping his arm. He set his clean brushes aside and turned to me. “How can I pay you? How much do I owe?”

“Never mind the money,” he muttered with a dismissive wave of his cigarette laden hand. "I don't want it."

“No, please. It’s the least I can do.”

He lowered his hand from his face after taking a long drag. He blew the smoke towards the window out of the corner of his mouth.

“You want to pay me?” he asked with a lopsided smile.

I nodded.

Then he leaned forward and kissed me ever so gently with a slightly open mouth. His lips lingered on mine for a moment long enough to feel the wet warmth of his face soak into mine and the scent of his subtle cologne to dance in my nostrils. He slowly pulled away leaving me dazed and wordless.

That cheeky smile crossed his face again.

“Consider your debt paid.”

Work Perks

I pulled over before I got to the street to check myself in the mirror. New clients were scary. I quickly learned through my apprenticeship that Ms, Mrs or Miss made no difference. There was always some kind of desperate housewife waiting behind that front door. I smoothed my hair – the ladies liked the scruffy blonde type. I had shaved – they also like the stubbly look. I drew the line at skipping the brushed teeth.
There was a blocked drain, leaky tap or faulty toilet that needed fixing, deliberate of course, at least once a day. I was quite surprised no one had poured quick set concrete into their drains, but then again...
I checked the job sheet.

‘Leaking shower taps’.

I laughed. No surprise there.
Mrs Connell was a repeat offender. I didn’t need to use the map to get to her house anymore. Twenty two Pepperwood Parade. I’d never forget it, nor would I forget the leopard print g-string leotard with the black tights underneath. Apparently I arrived early and caught her in the middle of things. Yeah, right. She should’ve known by the seventh visit that I was always on time. That was visit eleven. The early excuse gets old, like her really - well old for me. I should be so lucky to find a fifty something year old woman working out to Carmen Electra’s ‘Fit to Strip’. So lucky to still have my eyesight.
And then there was Mrs Morris. She conveniently forgot to take her iVibe Rabbit out of the bathroom. Twice.
I’ve seen it all in my line of work. Fluffy kitten heels, unbuttoned business shirt, hot pants and a hundred Wonderbras, sometimes all at the same time. I’ve been asked opinions on dresses while the client is wearing revealing underwear. I’ve been offered lemonade, massages, perfectly aged 20 year old single malt whiskey (like myself at the time) and spas. My muscles didn’t ache. The only thing that ached half the time was the sphincter keeping down lunch.
Sure I got the boring clients who would go about their business while I plunge their dunny. I had the ‘normal’ clients who would offer me a cup of tea to be friendly and I’d accept like the sucker I am for punishment. I’ve looked through wedding photos from the 1950’s and sampled 12 different kinds of homemade jams. Old people get lonely and I can’t help but feel sorry for them but they’re the nice, normal people who make the day interesting. I assumed every client was a crazy simply because they were the worst. Expect the worst, hope for the best, right?
I sighed and closed my eyes, briefly resting my head against the seat. I took in a moment of serenity before pulling the van back onto the street and finding the house.
It was different to what I was used to. Nice. New. Modern. I couldn’t understand why a brand new house’s bathroom fixtures needed mending so I immediately concluded that this was another crazy. Just another day - joy. I grabbed my paperwork that was fastened to a clipboard and climbed out of the van. I rang the door bell and a big dog started barking. I was used to those as well, and the ankle biters of the canine and human variety. They were the worst, little tool thieves! A female voice cried out for the dog to shut up and the solid door pulled open. The security screen was so dark I couldn’t see who or what lurked behind.

“Good morning, I’m Darren, the plumber. You called about some leaking taps.” I tried to sound gruff so I could just get in and out.

“Hi, Darren. I’m Trish. Please, come inside.”
The screen door clicked open and swung towards me. An amazing woman not much older than me stood barefoot on the polished tiles wearing comfortable, white tracksuit pants and a long sleeved grey shirt. Her curly brown hair was pulled into a ponytail and she had huge green eyes. If she chose to hit on me, I wouldn’t mind so much, I suppose. Better than the wrinkled cougars that normally preyed on me.
I stepped inside and slid off my feral boots. It was the first time in a long time that I worried my feet would smell. Thankfully they were okay.

“Could you please show me to the bathroom?”

“Sure it’s upstairs,” she smiled. Her teeth were straight and gleaming white. We headed up the stair case to the ensuite. I admit - I glanced at her ass once or twice as she led the way. The house was very tidy and it still had its new smell.

“In here.”

She directed me to the bathroom and indeed water was trickling through the shower head. I set the paperwork on the vanity and stepped inside the shower to take a look. Trish stood back and supervised.

“Be careful the water-”

Before she could finish a gush of water poured through the head all over mine. It was freezing and I jumped back in surprise, stumbling over the shower hob. My client caught me before I hit the ground.

“-pours out unexpectedly was what I was going to say, but I think you know that now.” She was stifling a laugh.
I scrambled to my feet and wiped my face. She handed me a towel.

“Thanks,” I muttered, patting down the front of my shirt. It got me good. My wet shirt was freezing but I ignored it.

“I need to turn off the water supply for a while. If you need to boil the kettle or anything, you best do it now.”

“Yeah I do. Would you like a coffee or something?”

She was ‘normal’. She was also hot.

“Sure. Thanks.”

Stupid me! I didn’t mean to accept her offer but her pretty smile threw me off. I’d fix her taps, take a few sips and piss off. Twenty minutes, tops.

“How do you have it?”

Not with clients, I reminded myself. And I didn’t mean the cuppa.

“I’ll have a coffee, white with one. Thanks-“

I struggled for the name.

“Trish,” she smiled.

“Trish,” I echoed, returning the smile.

She left the room and I followed her out with my clipboard. I collected my tools from the van and took them back upstairs, returning downstairs to turn off the water. When I came back inside I noticed two steaming mugs on the glass topped dining table that sat in full view from the front door. She was sitting there with a laptop in front of her. I stood in the entry way looking like an idiot.

“Come in,” she cooed, motioning with her hand.

I had wanted to fix her taps first but what the hey, I was getting paid to drink coffee with this woman. In fact, she was paying me to do it.
I set down the tools and pulled out a chair. I felt rather awkward, sitting at this stranger’s table while her attention was focused on the screen.

“What are you working on?” I asked, making conversation and taking a sip. It was a pretty good cup.

“Some stupid presentation.” She clicked the computer shut.

“Oh, what do you do?”

“I work in advertising.” She grabbed her mug with two hands and sipped it.

“Interesting.”

“No it isn’t really.”

I nodded. She looked at me for a moment which made the awkward silence worse. I took a few long sips and looked away, wincing as the hot liquid burned my throat.

“So, plumbing.”

“Yep.” I think I was blushing.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she cooed.

I was definitely blushing. “It’s not the most glamorous job. You probably wear nice suits and heels to work. I throw on some Hard Yakka blues and boots and fix peoples toilets.”

“I’m sure there’s a fun side to being up to your elbows in other people’s shit.”

I snorted, almost spraying my mouthful at her.

“Not today.”

“Am I the first job for the day?” I think she was flirting. If so, she was bloody good at it.

“Yeah. I normally start earlier but I had lots of paper pushing to get on top of first.”

She raised an eyebrow at me and sipped. I wasn’t comfortable with the way she looked at me so I told her I should get working. She excused me and I went back up to the master bedroom.
I worked quickly. I had done this job a thousand times and before long it was over. I was nice and cleaned up after myself a little better than usual and packed away my tools. I was washing my hands in the sink when Trish appeared in the door way.

“All finished?”

“Yes, ma’am. Good as new.”

“It was leaking when I moved in a week ago. I had this house built”

“Oh. Well, as good as it should have been.”

She laughed genuinely. “Tradesmen these days.”

I frowned at her.

“Except for you of course, you fixed it, and cleaned up after yourself.”

I smiled as I dried my now clean hands on her fluffy, soft towel. I could feel her watching me. I dried a little longer than necessary but I eventually let go of my temporary security blanket and took a peek at her. I couldn’t read her expression.

“I’m done now. I’ll organise the invoice for you. I won’t charge you for the coffee time.”

I grabbed my tools and turned to leave the bathroom but she blocked the path. Uh oh. Maybe she was a crazy. I stared at her for a moment, trying to be professional and assert myself using eye contact but she didn’t move. She just looked back with those glowing green eyes. They flicked between my left and right eye, searching me. I felt her hand pry the toolbox out of mine and she slid it back onto the vanity. I turned to retrieve it but without warning she grabbed my face and planted her lips passionately against mine. I couldn’t help but return her kiss. I’d wanted to do it since I saw her. Those lips were soft. I brought my hand up to her cheek and held it, that was soft too. Then as quickly as it started, it stopped. She pulled away and took a step back. I frowned at her, confused. She eyed her feet and rubbed her nose. She was letting me pass. I snatched at my toolbox and walked downstairs, grabbing my boots at the door.
I threw my box into the van and rammed my feet into my boots. She walked outside as if nothing had happened and I filled out her tax invoice, scribbling everything down with a shaking hand. She handed me her credit card and I swiped it on the machine. She signed the slip along with the invoice and I handed her the receipts, not bothering to check them or staple them like I normally did. I was so angry with myself I just wanted to get out of there!

“Thanks, Darren,” she mumbled. She waved quickly then hurried back inside. I swung myself into the van and slammed the door. How could I be so stupid, so unprofessional? I started the engine but something made me look back at the invoice. Something was on there that I didn’t write. I shut off the engine and grabbed the board. I blinked and smiled.

‘See you upstairs.’