Painted into Place

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the red dresser that stood mockingly against the opposite wall. Everything about the dresser reminded him of her. It’s soft and sensual curves blurred into the white paint and looked as though it was not a real dresser but a part of the wall.

Painted into place.

Just like everything she wore disappeared into the soft pink of her skin. Painted on. Everything she chose was just painted onto her so that he could see all of her soft and sensual curves.

Mocking him like the dresser.

Mocking and begging him at the same time. She had begged him with those clothes. With that body.

His eyes remained fixed on the dresser as memories flicked across the screen of his mind like a movie stuck on rewind. His moustache twitched softly as his breathing increased, but nothing else moved. The room was still, and so was he. Images flying across his mind.

The first day she’d touched him. At the beach. A soft caress of the finger across his bare back that made his skin spark with electricity and his muscles tighten with pleasure.

“Rub some lotion on my back, would you?” She’d asked him.

The smell of the tanning lotion as he squeezed it onto her back. She had cried out softly like he had hurt her. Like he would hurt her. His hands trembled as he placed them on her skin. The lotion was cold, but it warmed quickly as it was squeezed between their two fleshes. His hands. Her back. The sun was hot, too. Not as hot as he had been.

He tilted his head and looked for a hard line on the dresser, wondering for a moment if it was real. It had to be. He’d been there when she brought it inside. He’d told her it wasn’t worth what she’d paid for it, but she’d only rolled her eyes and said it would be once she’d cleaned and painted it. He had sighed and shaken his head at her like a disapproving father.

But she didn’t see. Her eyes were pinned to the dresser that sat in the back of her car, waiting. Waiting for him to help her lift and carry it. Or maybe he’d imagined that as well. Was she ever really there? Or was she just a figment of a woman from his past that he had painted onto the walls of his mind?

No. It was real. He closed his eyes as he remembered the first time he’d touched it. It hadn’t seemed soft and sensual that day. No. It was hard and jagged. He ran his fingers over the palms of his hands, remembering the splinters that he’d gotten.

He remembered the feel as he touched it. That’s right. He had touched it. He’d touched her. His pulse quickened as he remembered her hands on his hips, guiding him as he guided the dresser. No. It was real. She was real.

He put his hands behind him, flat against the bed, half raising himself off of the mattress. It squeaked. Just a faint “scree” as his weight shifted. He froze. Another memory. Another image. Another sound. Another sensation. Sensual.

It had to be real when it was that sensual. He stood up as they came back to him. All the sensations that let him know. She was real. Her smell as he buried his face in her neck. Coconut and gardenias. Then, salt. Not the smell of salt, but the taste. She still had salt and sand on her skin from the beach. He felt the crystals on his tongue. Bit down on the sand as he bit down on her.

Then, the feel.

Her hands in his as he pushed her onto the bed and then, of course, that sound. Scree. She flinched as it made the sound. He had liked when she flinched, but she didn’t flinch the next time it sounded. Scree.

He reached out and touched the glass perfume bottle, pressing down. It sprayed the wall, leaving a splash and streams of drips as it slid down the white wall. He could smell her again. Coconut and gardenias. And salt. He moved his hands to a tube of lipstick that sat next to the perfume and twisted it up and out of the tube.

Red.

Just like her face when she had screamed at him for the first time. Red hot like the blood that flowed through his veins when the anger took over. He stared at the lipstick, remembering the sting of his hand afterward. He dragged the lipstick across the wall.

Red like the handprint on her face. He drew a hand on the wall. Red on white, like the handprint on her face. Like a child’s drawing. White flecks of paint fell down to the floor, brightening the red on the wall just like the tears that brightened her face as they slowly slipped down her cheek. He’d gotten so angry when she had started to cry. Angrier than when she’d yelled. He felt his veins heating up again. Hotter than before.

He put the lipstick and perfume in his pocket. He then placed his palms flat against the top of the dresser and slid his hands all the way down the sides, caressing the curved wood. She must have just painted it, because the wood was still tacky with paint, and his hands came away moist and tinted with red. It was real.

He looked from his hands to the lipstick on the wall and reached up, smearing it with his fingers, just like her lips. Red stains smearing. Another memory flashed. He turned back to the bed. Lying there with her soft and sensual curves blurring into the white of the sheets, mocking him. Begging him. Painted into place. Just like everything she wore. Red and sticky.