Pink wine

-Good afternoon… he said to me, as I greeted back. But the impersonality of those two words was tainted by the look we exchanged then, and the sudden warm, cozy feeling that rose from below the waist up to our blushing faces.  

-What do you think? Am I good enough a goddess? I asked him in a cheeky tone.  He tried to mumble an answer, but then he just nodded.  My first job as a model, impersonating the Diana of the Romans for this painter. I was as excited as he evidently was. Such a talented young man. So we sat front to front and stayed mute for a while, sipping coffee. Finally, he gathered the courage to ask me about my interests, pleasures, aspirations and dreams. We had quite a deep conversation within the lapse of two hours which seemed like two minutes.

The next day, the meeting; he was all business as he worked swiftly on a mythological portrait that acknowledged all of the treats of my physique, but none of my flaws. This went on for many afternoons –I´ve tried, to no use, to remember how many- until one late night, he was done.  Flattering perfection.  Two cool glasses of pink wine to celebrate.  I came closer to him to admire the work; he quietly turned around and grabbed me, one hand on my waist, the other around my neck, and kissed me violently. I didn´t mean to stop him, though he kissed and bit so hard that my lower lip had a slight taste of blood as his hand pressed on my throat. And so he did not stop till we ended up naked, holding on to each other in a couch at his studio, tired and aching muscles.

-I believed  you only did writers.

- Well, I  love art in general. I´m not exclusive of any branch-  said I with a bored grin, while wondering how he´d arrived to that conclusion: my fame preceded me, both as a journalist and as a friend to people of arts. Too bad I would be neither to him; I was there to be his executioner.

At first I had thought I´d just pull out the .38 and shoot him. But as afternoons went by, I grew kind of fond of him, so I knew I had to choose a less violent method. 

My mobile rang. It was one of my writer friends –hello… yes, I´m at the bar… Ok, I´ll be there… Right, see you there in twenty; bye!

I wasn´t paying attention to my painter, as if he was banished from me already. But when he spoke, I instinctively turned to see him utter his very last words:

-You know? Even before you took that call, I knew you were going to lie…

I stood there in front of him, the one passing out… passing away pondering his unasked-for- opinion  momentarily.  Am I so deceitful?

No.  I think it´s the cyanide speaking…