Day Lark

Placing the steaming bowl of porridge in front of him, I smooth the gray hair escaping its tightly bound bun and nervously wait for him to collect his spoon and taste his breakfast just as he has done for the last thirty years. I still loved him despite his gruff mannerisms and I worked like a mouse around him terrified that after thirty years of marriage he would ask me to leave.
I loved him for his talent. Our home was filled with his etchings. Beautiful figures adorned our walls. Each nude male and female alike was succumbed by his charisma. My burning jealousy was constantly being cruelly provoked by their loving, adoring eyes captured on the canvas and lasciviously upon our walls.
I never disturbed him while he worked in the studio that overshadowed our kitchen like an oracle on a precipice. A mouse never disturbs the Master. I simply directed his Muse through the kitchen and pointed to the stairs. Swishes of silk and innocent eyes ascended into his heaven while I would recoil below him. Furtively making my retreat to our garden, eyes not daring to find his window and an imagination not too cruel to dwell upon her pale skin reclining on the chaise where he had first made love to me.

Still married but a young, pale and bright nubile subject now in my place and the genius behind his easel taking his time to look and capture. At lunch he chews rhythmically on the thick slices of rye and cheese I've prepared him.
It's to be your birthday soon, he observes distractedly, I want to give you something...a gift of sorts you might say.
I look at him in confusion and he continues, I know how you like to be in our garden Estelle. I've watched you there. Let's ask our boy to move the chaise there when he comes for lunch on Sunday.
Walking to the garden he gently takes my hand and leads me to the lounge. There he removes my robes delicately. My head automatically drops as I am exposed to the dappled light of the garden. He reassures me and encouraged by his significant nod, I lie down. I lie in our garden as panpipes filter through the trees, instinctively I relax. I doze sometimes through the afternoon. Mostly I smile at his proximity and his intensity. The intimacy of our lost youth tantalises us again. Our spirits soar.
Before sunset he lets me see.
I release a sob as I look at my portrait for the first time.
'I am still beautiful?'
'Our youth is gone,' he says and paints the autumn hues adorning his wife.

Meredith