A short piece, 1300 words approx, f/m. Art and painting is the theme (which I seem to come back a lot I have to say…)
He made himself cry for her. Not sob, nor weep and wail, but cry, silently, with tears running down his face.
She took photographs while he did. She had him sit on a stool in front of the blue egg-shell wall in her kitchen, made him take his shirt off. First middle distance, so she could capture his chest, concaved a little as he hunched, his shoulders rolled forward as his hands were kept between his knees – she asked that he didn’t touch his face, rub his eyes (later he would tell her that was the hardest part of it, not to wipe himself to keep himself neat and tidy.) The kitchen was warm, so his nipples remained soft as rose buds under his chest hair.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.