The Gaze of Adonis

If walls could talk, Adonis would have gone mad. Well, more mad than his current state. Returning from his travels, Adonis closes the door to his secluded studio behind him with a heavy bag. His calmness and allegiance has always been terrifyingly daunting. His pastime has always drawn curiosity and adoration due to the methodically undisclosed inspiration behind his paintings. Many worshipped and longed to be chosen as his muse, blithely, and easily bewitched by his beauty. A greasy, dark lock kisses the sweat on his handsomely chiseled cheeks. Although warm, cultured, and well-received by many; his hobby is discrete and crafted in isolation.

He removes his shoes and cleanses himself of last night's filth, because his studio is an altar of sanctimonious deeds --to him, at least.

He is now barefoot and clothed in white linen.

The easel, fresh canvas, new brushes, and the several mason jars of pigment have been prepared since two evenings ago. With sturdy hands, Adonis pulls a hefty ceramic jar from his tote and places it on the table. Afterwards, a transparent package of scarlet liquid is set next to his rusting, and neglected measuring cups.

Routinely, he mixes the jar of pigments while sprinkling in the gray, powdery dust from the urn. Of course, he follows by funneling in the clotted red fluid and stirs each jar like he's whisking an omelette. His hands are still clean, because he never makes a mess.

Adonis unveils the polaroid reference photo:

She appeared to be in her early twenties. Her ebony hair curled and waved as it pleased. Her ears peered through the strands. She had an oval-shaped face, and her brows were soft and expressionless. She had a few blemishes on her cheeks paired with a tiny mole near her nose. The bridge of her nose was wide and present. Her lips were thin. Her dark eyes were filled with zeal as if it was the first time she had ever been seen.

Attentively, Adonis begins to glide his brush across the canvas.

Hours go by, yet he never loses his focus. Perceivably, he's burned and discarded the original reference photo and has gone rogue. Although her wild black hair is now tamed, and her ears are dainty, and her brows are arched and alluring, and her blemish-free skin shines like porcelain, and her nose is sculpted into a button, and her lips are now full and pursed; Adonis failed to capture the zeal in her eyes.

He looks as if he's stolen her zeal for himself.

Once dry, Adonis steps back to admire his work.

She was not given a name.

Adonis picks up his creation, and pins her to the wall. He reveals the wall filled with nameless women trapped in their portrait, just like me.

He moves at a leisurely pace across the room. Adonis cherishes each of us on display like he's at a museum, idolizing our united ubiquitous gaze.