8 Shades of Paris

8th installment

continued...

He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.  "That's better'' he says, his voice hanging melodiously in the air.

I let the street artist paint my portrait with all the poise and elegance in the world, admiring how he holds the paintbrush so steadily over the canvas.  I stare into the distance, trying to look natural with a hint of sultry.  From the corner of my eye I glimpse him squeezing the tube of red paint onto his palette.  He's doing my hair.  I hear the rattling of the paintbrush in the water jar before he gently blends it into his plate of watercolours and I watch as he brings the brush to the board and stares deeply at his subject.

I close my eyes for a brief moment, letting the distant sun rest on my eyelids, frozen in a moment of uncontrolled happiness.  My nostrils flare at the familiar scent of roses and I feel something soft tickle my face.  I gently open my eyes to see my Frenchman caressing my face with the petals of the reddest rose before tucking it into one of my curls.  The painter frowns slightly, wanting him to leave the frame, and mildly irritated that I've tilted my head.  I giggle, trying hard to keep a straight face.

  

It's growing dark by the time he's done and the street begins to quieten.  I watch my dashing amant fold up a note into the artist's hand before delicately placing the painting in a paper bag.  ''Can I not see it?'' I say, slightly disappointed.  ''Later'', he whispers in my ear, pointing at a set of grey clouds which seem to be getting closer.

...

He grabs my hand, sheltering me from the pouring rain which begins to shroud the city.  We stand in front of a shop window, covered by an overhanging canopy sinking with the weight of the raindrops.  My damp curls begin to unravel and I can feel mascara trickling down my face.  He wipes my eye with the cuff of his pristine white shirt.  ''Don't cry sweetie'' he whispers.  I bite my lip, not knowing what to say or do next, the rain pounding down harder and harder and my chest thumping so loudly that I can barely make out his voice.  I rest the palms of my hands against the brick wall behind me, waiting.