Reckless

Because I. Wasn’t. Jealous.

I did my best to ignore Isabella. She ignored me with casual ease. Snooty bitch. I mean, she was a terrific model. Never moved a muscle. Totally professional.

I was convinced that Isabella was toying with me every time she came to the studio. She tried to lay claim to Christos in little ways. Touching him on the shoulder during breaks, offering to get him water, instead of him doing it for her. Giggling like a porn star at everything he said. Even when he said things to her like, “(picture Christos holding his mouth open while no sound came out).”

You get the idea.

Constantly.

Me and her were best friends.

Fake Smile!

To Christos’ credit, he handled everything completely professionally. He never seemed nervous, never worried that I was keeping an eye on him.

During one of the rare breaks when Isabella wasn’t hovering around him, Christos walked over to where I sat at my easel, working on my painting of an arrangement of three Calla Lilies.

“Wow, that’s coming along great, agapi mou. I love your composition, the way you’ve painted the corner of the window behind the lilies, framing the vase.”

“Thanks, Christos,” I smiled.

He scrutinized the painting more closely. “Nice brushwork on the petals. And you really nailed the warm and cool of the white. Normally, people just squeeze white paint out of the tube. But I can see you’ve mixed in hints of lemon yellow for the cool whites and cadmium yellow deep for the warm whites. Excellent,” he smiled and pecked me on the lips. “You’re a natural, like I’ve always said.”

“Wow,” I smiled, “you never miss anything when it comes to painting.”

But I think he might have missed my Isabella-induced all-day discomfort. I had a tinge of worry that Christos’ peck on my lips was too brief, too distant, like he didn’t want to look too familiar with me in front of Isabella.

Crap. I realized I was making myself miserable by making things up, looking for problems that probably weren’t there. Isabella wasn’t even in the room. So there was nothing for me to worry about, right?

“Is it just me, or is Isabella not picking up on my signals?”

Dread punched my heart. Signals? As in, Hey baby, as soon as my dumpy girlfriend Samantha isn’t looking, we should totally jump each other like jaguars. And Isabella would purr like Catwoman, Rawr!

I so needed to murder her before she left today. I wondered if you could find instructions on the internet for how to cut a car’s brake lines? Wasn’t that what they always did on TV shows?

“Samantha? You there?” Christos asked.

“Oh, sorry. What were you saying?” I asked guiltily.

“I just said, I’ve told Isabella a hundred times I have a girlfriend, who I love, who is sitting twenty feet away from us. Chick can’t take a hint. And by hint I mean hammer, because, Jesus Christ, what part of ‘girlfriend sitting right over there’ is she not picking up on?” Christos smirked and smiled at me while caressing my cheek with his thumb.

Oh, that’s what my boyfriend was saying.

He continued, “You’d think by now Isabella would’ve realized that she’s so not in your league, and would’ve just given up on me. I guess some rare women aren’t cursed with the female ‘I’m ugly’ gene, and end up over- rating themselves.”

Was he talking about the same Isabella I had dagger eyes for? The perfect one he was painting?

“Not everyone can be as blessed by beauty as you, agapi mou,” he smiled.

Wait, was Christos bullshitting me? I searched his eyes.

All I saw was honesty and love.

I was an idiot for doubting him and…swoon.

I wondered if Christos could send Isabella home early today. Not because I was jealous, but because I desperately needed to jump him right at that moment.

Isabella walked back into the studio from the back deck, where she had spent her break looking at the view.

“More painting?” Isabella asked.

Party pooper. I sighed. Back to my painting of Calla Lilies. At least they were turning out nice.

“You know what?” Christos asked.

“Yes?” Isabella said hopefully.

“Why don’t we finish up early today. I’m feeling a bit tired.”

Christos had read my mind. Take that you, uh, nice lady model.

“No!” Isabella pouted.

Home wrecker.

“Sorry, Isabella,” Christos said. “I really need a break myself. We can pick up next time.”

“Okay, Christos,” she said in her thick accent. “I do whatever you say.” Yes, she fanned her eyelashes at him.

I was now officially above looking daggers at her anymore.

Christos ushered Isabella out as quickly as he could. She dragged her feet like a kid being told it was bedtime. To me, she seemed as pouty as a seven-year-old, so it was an apt description. Was she like this all the time with Christos?

Probably.

I needed to research brake lines tonight.

When Christos finally got Isabella out of the house, I decided to surprise him when he came back in the studio. I’d become more adventurous in the past few weeks, all because of Christos. He was always encouraging me, reminding me how wonderful I was, how beautiful I was. His words were starting to sink in.

Maybe now was a good time to experiment with a little adventure.

I walked over to the painting he was doing of Isabella. It was gigantic, and it was truly amazing. He’d finished the face, and had painted a good deal of the body. The palette lying in front of the easel was covered in smears of paint. Brushes soaked in jars, paint-stained paper towels filled a small trash can.

I was in awe of Christos’ talent. I felt like watching him work was as close as anyone would ever come to being in the studio of a Rembrandt or a Vermeer or a Velazquez. Christos was a living master of oil painting, yet he was still so young. And he was all mine.

I eyed the divan where Isabella had been posing in the nude all afternoon. I was going to take off all my clothes and lie down on it. I wanted to be waiting for Christos when he came back into the room.

Was I marking my territory? If Christos and I had sex on the divan in the next two minutes, I suppose you could say that I was. Fuck it.

This was my studio, bitches! :-P

I untied my painting smock and hung it over the back of Christos’ chair in front of the easel. Then I pulled my sweater and t-shirt up together. When it was over my head, and my nearly-naked torso was exposed to the world, save for my bra, I heard voices in the house, heading toward the studio.

Shit!

Christos and…a woman’s voice!

Double shit!

I yanked my shirt and sweater back on, mussing my scrunchie. Hair fell out of my pony-tail in random strands around my face. I grabbed my painting smock and tied it on as I trotted over to my own easel and plopped down, smoothing my hair and hurriedly redoing my scrunchie.

I almost got caught naked! I was never doing that again!

My cheeks burned, but hopefully my blush would be the only evidence of my indiscrete impulses.

Christos walked into the studio.

Followed by Tiffany Queenston-Micehouse. Wow, she really knew how to rain on my parade. She was a practiced expert. I ducked behind my easel, hoping she wouldn’t see me and pull out a handgun or maybe a flamethrower.