It had been pleasant and had had meaning as long she was by his side. How quickly everything withered and faded and now that it was over a tormented feeling of impermanence engulfed him.
What to do? He began to draw unloading all the last images of her body from his mind: that perfectly shaped mouth, her dark dreamy eyes that, from time to time, would drift to somewhere in the clouds. How to forget those long, thin fingers that comfort him at night and the smell of lavender of her long wavy hair provocatively parted over one shoulder. The thought of her class and elegance overwhelmed him. It was the way she carried herself on those black high heels and her red dress that first caught his attention – she hated to lose control, she hated to give away any little glint of emotion secretly kept in the deep well of her soul. She was mystery.
“Isn’t what art is all about?” He pondered. “Beauty and mystery.”
So perhaps he would never be able to draw a concrete image of her, perhaps she would always remain dream, idea and fantasy. All he knew he was bound to her body and that beautiful mind – she was his supreme work of art.