Re: Sonrisa: Sam A & Cris M
She didn't realize he was awake, yeah? Not at first. He curled closer, warm and that was what she felt, yeah? More warmth, knee butting her thigh and she didn't look right away. She was bent over the canvas, knees against hard ground, back curved, and the movement of brush something born frenetic, yeah?
None of the paintings strewed around were anything realistic. They were all abstract, and not her normal style at all. They were large swaths of color, a growing panic in reds and ocher, a freezing fear in blues and indigo. The paintings were Hell in heavy whorls, and they were how she felt, yeah? Completely messy, paint dripping off canvas edges and onto the floor. Mad, yeah? The fucking paints, they were madness, and she was staring at thick layered paint like she could see things there. Maybe she could. Maybe everything was there, all her fear, and she was still a fucking thing made of unfocused thoughts when she heard his voice, small.
The touch made her steel shoulders, but it was quick, yeah? The melting that came after, like her spine was metal and it dripped down. He was him. He was him. He was him.
She started drawing circles with her brush, echoing the touch on spine, and then he tucked hair behind her ear. She slapped more paint from palette to canvas, brown and green edging the brush, meeting in a long grey in the center. And then she tossed the heavy paint brush aside, and she turned. Paint all over her cheeks, and that purple at her temple matched by a few good bumps on the back of her head, and she curled up on that cold floor and tried to mash herself up inside him.