The Grooms

The sun light poured through the tall window, and splashed on the violent slashes of sapphire and Rubby. It washed over the man who stood beside the canvas like a warrior at battle,wielding a paint brush like a claymore. He had the face of a warrior tough, intense with knife edge cheek bones, adding hollows to a mouth that was full but firm in concentration. Eyes sparkling green and icy cold beneath knitted brows. His hair wavered over his ears,curled over the collar of the demin shirt he wore in leu of a smock. He’d rolled his sleeve up and well toned muscles of his arms rippled as he slashed the brush on the canvas. He was built like a warrior, broad shoulders, narrowed hips and had long legs. His feet were bare, his wild and clever hands smeared with paint. In his mind he saw explosions of emotions, passion, lust,hunger and greed. And all of these he poured into the canvas while listening to a rock song from the stereo that filled the air . To him painting was like a war to him, a war he was determined to conquer over and over again. When the mood is on him he would work until his arms ached and his fingers cramped, and when his moods are otherwise he could ignore the canvas for days or weeks. There were those who said Mc Armstrong lacked discipline. To those who said ,who the devil wanted it ?. As he clamped the brush in between his teeth, switched to a palate knife to smear on a bold emerald point, his eyes glittered in triumph. He got it now. The hours of waging this battle is almost over. A thin line of sweat slide down from his back and the sun coming from the window was fierce now and the studio was viciously hot, he had forgotten to turn on the air conditioner. He had forgotten to eat as well or check his mail, check his phone or glance out of the beautiful tall window beside him. He stepped back with the brush still clenched to his teeth like a pirate’s blade, the palette knife like a dagger in his hands, that firm forbidden mouth curved. “That’s it” he murmured. He put the the brush in a jar and began to clean the knife as he studied his work. “Need” he decided to call it simple Need. And for the first time in hours he realized that the room was stuffy, filled with familiar scent of paint thick in the air. He crossed the unpainted hardwood and shoved open one of his closed windows, took a deep breath of fresh air. It had been the windows and the view that got him attracted to this apartment when he decided to return to Washington, he grow up here with a ten years of his life spent in the White House as first son. For a period of time he’d live and worked in New York City,and enjoyed it. He also lived in L.A and enjoyed it also. Throughout his twenties something had tagged at him. He’d finally given into it. This was home. He stood by the window with his hands shoved into his pockets of the ragged short jeans he was wearing. He took a deep breath again, the weather seemed to be calming and refreshing and flowers were blooming prettily. Armstrong wondered what day it was. Then realizing he was starving to death, he left the music playing on and went to the kitchen. The pent house was two levels with the top designed for master bedroom suite. Armstrong had made it his studio and slept on a mattress tossed to the floor in his spare room. He hadn’t gotten around to be dealing with bed frame. Most of his clothes were still in his packing boxes, they had been shipped nearly three months ago. The main floor had a spacious living area with more windows undraped, in it there was a small single sofa with the tag still on, a Phyfe table with half inches of dust on it surface, and a floor lamp with a dented metallic shade, the Radom wide pine floor was desperately in need of vacuuming. The dining alcove of the kitchen was empty, the dishes and pots weren’t heaped in the sink but were still in a box. He went straight to the refrigerator and bitterly found it empty apart from some bottled water, a white wine, two can bear and few eggs. He could have sworn he went shopping. He checked his cupboards and found some slices of very moldy bread, a bag of coffee, four boxes of cornflakes and a can of soup. He ripped open a box of cereal and ate a handful while debating which one he wants more. Coffee or a shower. He’d just decided to make a cup of coffee and take it with him into the shower when the phone rang, he noticed without much interest that his message light was blinking and munching dry cereal he answered “Hello”.