Years Ago
It wasn?t yet morning when the girl stirred, moving with practiced grace to disengage her limbs from those belonging to the sailor. The light on his desk, still glowing, cast her shade against his sleeping form. She turned back to look over her shoulder, tucking a stray tress of red hair behind her ear as she privately admired the view. Young and full of promise, his life stretched an unending line of possibilities and here she was?a moment?in that ever reaching thread. The beauty of that moment transfixed a smile on her lips, still reddened from the arduous activities from before. Abram. The name whispered through her thoughts, a soft echoing blessing. He had given her a gift this night and she would return it in kind.
--
Abram felt the sheets move, weight shifting on the bed, as his mind existed somewhere on the edge of sleep. His mind clung to a dream, chasing the memory of a girl with red hair and captivating blue-grey eyes. Flecks of yellow dotted those eyes like so many stars in the sky. In the vision he reached for her, realty finding his hand searching the vacated pillow beside him. Still warm. Tired eyes opened to witness the dream sitting on the edge of his bed. Her back curved, bending to ease soft white stockings over shapely legs. A tired noise died, muffled in his throat, as he moved just enough to brush fingers to the soft skin of her upper thigh. The touch applied with careful pressure, afraid to chase the dream away.
--
The stroke of fingers to skin gained her attention, bringing her to look at entreating eyes. It didn?t matter their color. All the little details of him merged into one beautiful mass.
?Stay.? He implored in a voice low from the slumber he?d awoken from.
What gifts she would like to grant him, but this one she cannot. The refusal comes in a quiet smile before she turns back to pull up another stocking.
?I love you.? He tries further, desire giving way to partial truths. Lazy fingers lightly grasp, as if willing belief to be kindled in the girl through his touch.
She chuckles, a lovely ringing sound. Head dipped low against her shoulder, while she looks to him with unconcealed amusement.
?No you don?t.? She spoke with chiding affection.
?I could.? His sounds a tired protest but his hand retreats, waving the white flag. He is resigned to watch his living dream make her slow getaway.
Could he? Yes, if given the chance, but she would not stay long enough for that to happen. Quietly, she rises from his bed. The supple form clad only in sheer white stockings that stopped at her thighs. No argument or agreement met his claim, she moves toward the corner of the room.
--
?You could sell these.? She says, standing before his collection of paintings as comfortable out of her clothes as in them.
?They?re crap.? He flops fully onto his back. Eye averted to the ceiling, not looking at the girl and definitely not looking to the pile of painting and sketched that have never seen the light of day.
?I like them.? A faint touch applied to one canvas as it reflects her face up to her. She did not recall seeing him that night, when she spoke with others on the docks. The image holds a covert memory, taken and given life in the shelter of his room.
?No.? Resistance remained in that voice, unwilling to risk, unwilling to fail. He covered his eyes, ridding the very thought from his head.
Silence stretches on until he begins to wonder if she is quietly fuming or if those where the words that killed a dream. The fear of finding an angry women or worse yet no woman at all keeps him as he is, until the bed once again shifts under gentle weight. He lifts his head to find the angel returned to him, watching as she places her body over his own. Blue-grey eyes, flecked with so many yellow stars become the canvas of his night.
?You could.?
The intimate whisper of her voice, delivered at tantalizing proximity, turned down any further disagreement from Abram. He discovered a willingness to agree to anything to keep her in his bed a little longer, and the price she was asking was a meager thing.
?You?re right. I could.?
Satisfied with his surrender, smiling lips lowered themselves against his. The kiss started tender, then eager as arms solidified by physical labor wrapped around her smaller form.
--
In the morning, just like any dream, the girl was gone?and with her two of his sketches.
--
Three days later?
An unexpected knock diverts Abram from his latest sketch?trying to draw from memory the face of a girl, the image slipping as easily from his mind as the woman from his bed when the morning light arrived. Gone too was the sketch of her on the pier along with another of his brethren at work. His pen was yielded to rest on top of the blank sheet of paper as another knock sounded against his door. The scratch of his chair against the floor and a murmured grunt the only telltale sign to his guest that he?s coming. He interrupts the third, persistent knock when he opens the door.
A man stands there, his appearance uncommon to the area of the docks. The smaller framed man little more than a wisps compared to the man he was calling on, still he carried himself with purpose and straightened as the door was opened.
?Abram Vonau, you are the creator of this piece??
The man spoke quickly, holding more weight in his words than he did in appearance, and giving Abram little time to question how the man knew of him or how to find him. Before the words are out the man is lifting Abram?s art?the piece of men at work on the docks?to face him.
?How??
Impatient eyes leveled at Abram cutting off his words. A busy man, his guest, with a busy schedule and no time to answer questions but only get the answers he came for.
?I am.?
?Good.?
The artwork was tucked away, obviously not to be returned to the artist. Instead the man forced a crisp white business card into Abram?s hand.
?Jonathan Zwirner, I run the art gallery. The bidding for your piece was fierce.? Tapping the satchel to which the sketch has been tucked away into, then drawing out a slip of paper and handing it over to Abram as he continued without a breath, ?My clients want more and I mean to see them satisfied. Here is payment for the first and an advance. I expect to see you at my office, eight, first thing in the morning, bring everything you have.?
Abram?s voice choked, losing the ability to speak as he looked at more zeros than he?d ever witness on a check before. The little man waited with polite irritation for the other to answer, clearing his throat meaningfully to help him along.
?O-oh. Yes. Yes, sir. I will be there.? Looking from the check to the business card, he noted the location of the gallery.
Jonathan gave a firm nod, wasting no time as he turned to leave. He made it two steps before halting in his tracks to turn to Abram again.
?You are lucky your agent was so fetching. It?s a pity she had to leave to tend to other matters. Still. We will make due, you and I. Middlemen?however attractive?can still be a hassle. See you tomorrow.?
The last of his word said, Jonathan made good on his departure, leaving Abram silently dumbfounded and lost in a memory?
--
He sits at a table, tucked away in the back of the tavern. His shipmates further to the front, he can hear their drunken voices carry, telling tales over a game of cards. Occasionally they jest, calling for him?the artist by their words?to come join them in some fun. Inspiration struck him that night, however, and he has left them to their amusements as he bends with dedication to the paper before him. So drawn in to his work, he does not notice the girl standing beside his small table until she speaks.
?I hear you?re an artist.?
Abram is halfway through a mental curse of his mates, tired of them sending dockyard whores to distract him, when he looks up and the curt brush off he was about to deliver dies on his tongue. Quick hands attempt to shuffle the sketch of the very girl before him to the back of the small stack of papers. Not quick enough. Delicate hands with nimble fingers snag the bit of art work before it?s able to be tucked away, looking at it as she took up the seat across from him. He waited in agonized torment as she held his sketch hostage, hating others to see his work, convinced it was never good enough. She returned the sketch with an approving smile, blue-grey eyes watching his face with a spark of delight. She skipped comment or praises of his talent, rewarding him with something better?a name.
?I?m Lucky.?
((Thanks to Gideon, Catlin, Bylah, and Rather Indifferent for letting me lurk so often and inspiring me to get this snippet out of my head... rather than continuing to let it knock around unattended. Thanks as well to A&C for reading it before hand.))
It wasn?t yet morning when the girl stirred, moving with practiced grace to disengage her limbs from those belonging to the sailor. The light on his desk, still glowing, cast her shade against his sleeping form. She turned back to look over her shoulder, tucking a stray tress of red hair behind her ear as she privately admired the view. Young and full of promise, his life stretched an unending line of possibilities and here she was?a moment?in that ever reaching thread. The beauty of that moment transfixed a smile on her lips, still reddened from the arduous activities from before. Abram. The name whispered through her thoughts, a soft echoing blessing. He had given her a gift this night and she would return it in kind.
--
Abram felt the sheets move, weight shifting on the bed, as his mind existed somewhere on the edge of sleep. His mind clung to a dream, chasing the memory of a girl with red hair and captivating blue-grey eyes. Flecks of yellow dotted those eyes like so many stars in the sky. In the vision he reached for her, realty finding his hand searching the vacated pillow beside him. Still warm. Tired eyes opened to witness the dream sitting on the edge of his bed. Her back curved, bending to ease soft white stockings over shapely legs. A tired noise died, muffled in his throat, as he moved just enough to brush fingers to the soft skin of her upper thigh. The touch applied with careful pressure, afraid to chase the dream away.
--
The stroke of fingers to skin gained her attention, bringing her to look at entreating eyes. It didn?t matter their color. All the little details of him merged into one beautiful mass.
?Stay.? He implored in a voice low from the slumber he?d awoken from.
What gifts she would like to grant him, but this one she cannot. The refusal comes in a quiet smile before she turns back to pull up another stocking.
?I love you.? He tries further, desire giving way to partial truths. Lazy fingers lightly grasp, as if willing belief to be kindled in the girl through his touch.
She chuckles, a lovely ringing sound. Head dipped low against her shoulder, while she looks to him with unconcealed amusement.
?No you don?t.? She spoke with chiding affection.
?I could.? His sounds a tired protest but his hand retreats, waving the white flag. He is resigned to watch his living dream make her slow getaway.
Could he? Yes, if given the chance, but she would not stay long enough for that to happen. Quietly, she rises from his bed. The supple form clad only in sheer white stockings that stopped at her thighs. No argument or agreement met his claim, she moves toward the corner of the room.
--
?You could sell these.? She says, standing before his collection of paintings as comfortable out of her clothes as in them.
?They?re crap.? He flops fully onto his back. Eye averted to the ceiling, not looking at the girl and definitely not looking to the pile of painting and sketched that have never seen the light of day.
?I like them.? A faint touch applied to one canvas as it reflects her face up to her. She did not recall seeing him that night, when she spoke with others on the docks. The image holds a covert memory, taken and given life in the shelter of his room.
?No.? Resistance remained in that voice, unwilling to risk, unwilling to fail. He covered his eyes, ridding the very thought from his head.
Silence stretches on until he begins to wonder if she is quietly fuming or if those where the words that killed a dream. The fear of finding an angry women or worse yet no woman at all keeps him as he is, until the bed once again shifts under gentle weight. He lifts his head to find the angel returned to him, watching as she places her body over his own. Blue-grey eyes, flecked with so many yellow stars become the canvas of his night.
?You could.?
The intimate whisper of her voice, delivered at tantalizing proximity, turned down any further disagreement from Abram. He discovered a willingness to agree to anything to keep her in his bed a little longer, and the price she was asking was a meager thing.
?You?re right. I could.?
Satisfied with his surrender, smiling lips lowered themselves against his. The kiss started tender, then eager as arms solidified by physical labor wrapped around her smaller form.
--
In the morning, just like any dream, the girl was gone?and with her two of his sketches.
--
Three days later?
An unexpected knock diverts Abram from his latest sketch?trying to draw from memory the face of a girl, the image slipping as easily from his mind as the woman from his bed when the morning light arrived. Gone too was the sketch of her on the pier along with another of his brethren at work. His pen was yielded to rest on top of the blank sheet of paper as another knock sounded against his door. The scratch of his chair against the floor and a murmured grunt the only telltale sign to his guest that he?s coming. He interrupts the third, persistent knock when he opens the door.
A man stands there, his appearance uncommon to the area of the docks. The smaller framed man little more than a wisps compared to the man he was calling on, still he carried himself with purpose and straightened as the door was opened.
?Abram Vonau, you are the creator of this piece??
The man spoke quickly, holding more weight in his words than he did in appearance, and giving Abram little time to question how the man knew of him or how to find him. Before the words are out the man is lifting Abram?s art?the piece of men at work on the docks?to face him.
?How??
Impatient eyes leveled at Abram cutting off his words. A busy man, his guest, with a busy schedule and no time to answer questions but only get the answers he came for.
?I am.?
?Good.?
The artwork was tucked away, obviously not to be returned to the artist. Instead the man forced a crisp white business card into Abram?s hand.
?Jonathan Zwirner, I run the art gallery. The bidding for your piece was fierce.? Tapping the satchel to which the sketch has been tucked away into, then drawing out a slip of paper and handing it over to Abram as he continued without a breath, ?My clients want more and I mean to see them satisfied. Here is payment for the first and an advance. I expect to see you at my office, eight, first thing in the morning, bring everything you have.?
Abram?s voice choked, losing the ability to speak as he looked at more zeros than he?d ever witness on a check before. The little man waited with polite irritation for the other to answer, clearing his throat meaningfully to help him along.
?O-oh. Yes. Yes, sir. I will be there.? Looking from the check to the business card, he noted the location of the gallery.
Jonathan gave a firm nod, wasting no time as he turned to leave. He made it two steps before halting in his tracks to turn to Abram again.
?You are lucky your agent was so fetching. It?s a pity she had to leave to tend to other matters. Still. We will make due, you and I. Middlemen?however attractive?can still be a hassle. See you tomorrow.?
The last of his word said, Jonathan made good on his departure, leaving Abram silently dumbfounded and lost in a memory?
--
He sits at a table, tucked away in the back of the tavern. His shipmates further to the front, he can hear their drunken voices carry, telling tales over a game of cards. Occasionally they jest, calling for him?the artist by their words?to come join them in some fun. Inspiration struck him that night, however, and he has left them to their amusements as he bends with dedication to the paper before him. So drawn in to his work, he does not notice the girl standing beside his small table until she speaks.
?I hear you?re an artist.?
Abram is halfway through a mental curse of his mates, tired of them sending dockyard whores to distract him, when he looks up and the curt brush off he was about to deliver dies on his tongue. Quick hands attempt to shuffle the sketch of the very girl before him to the back of the small stack of papers. Not quick enough. Delicate hands with nimble fingers snag the bit of art work before it?s able to be tucked away, looking at it as she took up the seat across from him. He waited in agonized torment as she held his sketch hostage, hating others to see his work, convinced it was never good enough. She returned the sketch with an approving smile, blue-grey eyes watching his face with a spark of delight. She skipped comment or praises of his talent, rewarding him with something better?a name.
?I?m Lucky.?
((Thanks to Gideon, Catlin, Bylah, and Rather Indifferent for letting me lurk so often and inspiring me to get this snippet out of my head... rather than continuing to let it knock around unattended. Thanks as well to A&C for reading it before hand.))