Portrait of a Kiss

By Delta Cove
2009

I suppose 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. Mr Westley would
walk 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 bad personal hygiene. It was
disgusting. I decided against the audition and departed 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 up my jacket, exposing my scant
under-garments beneath my thick, grey pea-coat. The man doffed his golf cap and I smiled
under my flapper hat, not making eye contact. I walked on, my heart thudding with worry as I
imagined my backside shining like the full moon, but it almost stopped dead when he spoke.
“Ma’am?”
I froze by the light post.
“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 words caught me by surprise. “I-I’m sorry?”
“If he rejected you, he is a moron.”
“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 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.
He looked very presentable.
“You have beauty and brains.” His smile lit up his face like lights on a stage.
“I beg my pardon, but, who are you?”
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.”
“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 humbly. I eyed his hands as they hung by his sides. They looked soft and
delicate, his nails all short and even. They were the hands of a creative man.
“What kind of art do you do?”
“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 it loud enough to cause a stir, so I
contemplated a louder shriek when he didn’t let go.
 He pulled me in closer to his face. He smelled sweet and I didn’t feel he posed any real
threat to a lady, no matter his choice in art.
“I’m only asking you to look, Ma’am.”
I examined his diamond-like eyes. Eyes like these didn’t lie. He released my arm and
turned away to his studio. 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 afternoon sunlight that poured in from the window like liquid gold. A plain
wooden stool sat before the open window and an empty easel took up the rest of the floor
space, a table of brushes, jars and tubes of paint at its side. A closet of canvasses overflowed
with colour, predominantly peach. Bare buttocks and breasts seemed to be the main theme.
I stepped closer to the canvases while Jonathon placed the easel to the side. His
paintings were wonderful, but the realism of their faces captured my heart.
“These are beautiful,” 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 with 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. Indeed she was with her full red pout, dark eyelashes and
amazing blue eyes.
“She isn’t real,” Jonathon confessed with a smile.
“I beg your pardon?” I said, a little surprised.
“I didn’t use a model for the painting, for most of these paintings, in fact. These are
women in my mind.”
I stared at him in bewilderment. “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.” He pulled out a canvas of a less than perfect girl, her
eyes were staring in different directions-–one inward to her nose, and 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.
“What are you wearing under your coat?”
I opened my coat and pulled the shoulders back. I wore a black silk bustier and
matching knickers and suspender belt. My stockings were uneven and my shoes were
splattered with dirt. My attire was a little more risque than I had intended, but I was pressed
for time and put on what I could find that Mr Westley looked for in his subjects. My tram had
stopped right by a puddle and two unruly boys splashed mud on my shoes and black
stockings.
Jonathon 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 for a response. A sun
shower had began and I laughed silently at the waiting--and now wet--girls downstairs.
“I’ll do it.”
“All right,” I smiled. “What would you like me to do?”
He pulled the chaise over to the window and I moved out of the way. He carefully
positioned the lounge so the light was just right and began rummaging through a box under
the table. 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 myself onto to the lounge and he began arranging my limbs like a puppet. I
giggled as he fiddled with my arms, the feathers from the boa tickling my nose. He
rearranged that too and stepped back a few paces.
 “Your hair, is it long under you hat?”
“Why yes.”
I removed my hat and unfastened the clips, and my brown waves tumbled to my
shoulder. I raised my hand to cast them aside when Mr Wicks suddenly cried, “No!”.
I stopped, and he leaned in toward me and began arranging my curls to please his eye.
Then he gently took my hat and carefully placed it on my head. He tilted my chin to the light
and took a moment to observe.
“Now don’t move.”
He pulled a blank canvas from the closet and settled it on the easel. I watched him as he
began sketching with a piece of chalk, his face peeking out from the white fabric. He then
began with paint, dabbing the brushes in the pools of black, red 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 on the rooftop, creating a special kind of music. It was very
relaxing, laying in the sunshine. Occasional drops of golden rain sprayed me unexpectedly
from the open window. Jonathon’s silver eyes examined my entire body. His forehead
glistened and he wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The room had become stuffy with the
heat and rain.
“I have to stop,” Jonathan called through the canvas. He sounded very disappointed.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, still not moving in case he changed his mind.
“It’s too wet, the paint isn’t drying enough for me to work over and the colours are
blending. You may relax now, Miss Scott.”
I sat up and removed the infernal feather boa. I covered myself with my coat again 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.
“Mr Wicks!” 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 of the window. He captured my brown waves
wonderfully, my red lips and pointed chin. My dark lashes and thin brows. I could see the
golden sun rays across my face. The paint still shone fresh. I could see 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 veil in your hat and then finish the rest, it will be
better.”
“Better?” I shrieked. “You are so talented! You are so much better than that fat old man
out there!”
He smiled as he inhaled a smoky breath.
“If you’re flattering me because you have no money, please stop.”
“I do not joke, Mr Wicks.” 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.
Please, Mr Wicks. 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.
“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.
“No, please. It’s the least I can do for you.”
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 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 warmth of his face soak into mine
and the scent of his subtle cologne mixed with the cigarette smoke to dance in my nostrils. He
slowly pulled away leaving me dazed and wordless.
An audacious smile crossed his face.
“Consider your debt paid.”