Still Life With Taylor
folder
Individual Celebrities › Vin Diesel
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
18
Views:
1,837
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Individual Celebrities › Vin Diesel
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
18
Views:
1,837
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. I do not know Vin Diesel. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
18
::EIGHTEEN::
Sit on the fire escape, with a cup of coffee, and watch her paint, through the open window. Brown black, blue black, green black. She's lost in it. Listening to a voice only she can hear. Every once in a while holding the brush in her teeth, moving the paint with her hands, as though the brush isn't enough to express the darkness, the stillness, inside her. She never paints daylight scenes. Says there's no depth to it. Says that in darkness we expose ourselves.
If someone had told me a month ago that I would be doing this, just sitting watching a woman paint, I would have said they needed to get their heads screwed on right. It's different with Christine, somehow. Maybe it's just because she's so quiet, doesn't make demands. Takes joy in the smallest of things.
She's good at what she does, but all she really wants to do is paint. She used to spend just about everything she made on paint, supplies, even if it meant she didn't eat. My mother made her eat sandwiches until I thought she would burst. Swatted me, said I wasn't making her eat enough. My mother likes her.
The bruise on her lip is going away. I knew the trouble wouldn't stop, knew the other shoe would drop at some point. She got grabbed at work, sitting outside on the milkcrates, talking to the cook, who tried to help her, came in to get me when he couldn't. She only got hit once, busted her lip. I probably would have beat him to death, if Matty hadn't have pulled me off of him.
I've seen a lot in my life. I never thought I'd see that look on Matty. I forget sometimes, where he comes from. Matty may not be a killer, but the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. He has it in him, he just doesn't like it. Has never had to live it, he never wanted to. He called in the contract. Paid ten percent on top of what he and Sal already paid. Said he wanted it done right, wanted it done, period. Neither one of us told Christine. We never will. Just one more secret we both share.
The bikers are gone. No one will ever find them. Their club is burned down. The dirty cops who pulled us in have disappeared. I doubt they'll turn up. Matty didn't start this, but he sure the hell finished it.
We took yesterday off. It was a Tuesday, quiet. I took her to a gallery. If anyone laughs, I'll beat the hell out of them. Seurat. Something like that. She has a book here, somewhere. I noticed the ad in the paper. I didn't tell her, just took her. There was a painting there, of trees. That same glittering green gold as her eyes. That's twice that a painting has done that to me.
Captured one perfect moment, like it reached inside you and showed you something you would have kept hidden, something you might have forgotten about. Like a mirror, that shows something inside you never expected to see.
Kiss her softly under those trees, her eyes bright. Like there's no one else in the world but her. Can't help but think of Sal, telling me to make an honest woman out of her.
::END::
Sit on the fire escape, with a cup of coffee, and watch her paint, through the open window. Brown black, blue black, green black. She's lost in it. Listening to a voice only she can hear. Every once in a while holding the brush in her teeth, moving the paint with her hands, as though the brush isn't enough to express the darkness, the stillness, inside her. She never paints daylight scenes. Says there's no depth to it. Says that in darkness we expose ourselves.
If someone had told me a month ago that I would be doing this, just sitting watching a woman paint, I would have said they needed to get their heads screwed on right. It's different with Christine, somehow. Maybe it's just because she's so quiet, doesn't make demands. Takes joy in the smallest of things.
She's good at what she does, but all she really wants to do is paint. She used to spend just about everything she made on paint, supplies, even if it meant she didn't eat. My mother made her eat sandwiches until I thought she would burst. Swatted me, said I wasn't making her eat enough. My mother likes her.
The bruise on her lip is going away. I knew the trouble wouldn't stop, knew the other shoe would drop at some point. She got grabbed at work, sitting outside on the milkcrates, talking to the cook, who tried to help her, came in to get me when he couldn't. She only got hit once, busted her lip. I probably would have beat him to death, if Matty hadn't have pulled me off of him.
I've seen a lot in my life. I never thought I'd see that look on Matty. I forget sometimes, where he comes from. Matty may not be a killer, but the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. He has it in him, he just doesn't like it. Has never had to live it, he never wanted to. He called in the contract. Paid ten percent on top of what he and Sal already paid. Said he wanted it done right, wanted it done, period. Neither one of us told Christine. We never will. Just one more secret we both share.
The bikers are gone. No one will ever find them. Their club is burned down. The dirty cops who pulled us in have disappeared. I doubt they'll turn up. Matty didn't start this, but he sure the hell finished it.
We took yesterday off. It was a Tuesday, quiet. I took her to a gallery. If anyone laughs, I'll beat the hell out of them. Seurat. Something like that. She has a book here, somewhere. I noticed the ad in the paper. I didn't tell her, just took her. There was a painting there, of trees. That same glittering green gold as her eyes. That's twice that a painting has done that to me.
Captured one perfect moment, like it reached inside you and showed you something you would have kept hidden, something you might have forgotten about. Like a mirror, that shows something inside you never expected to see.
Kiss her softly under those trees, her eyes bright. Like there's no one else in the world but her. Can't help but think of Sal, telling me to make an honest woman out of her.
::END::