Fetish

 The vivid hues of the foliage seemed to bring the painting to life. Intrigued, he leaned closer. Blowing rapidly down the dirt road, the artist's yellow leaves were a dazzling gold, the red leaves burned a deep, unnatural maroon, more beautiful than reality, and the dark orange leaves faded around their edges, as if they couldn't decide which color they wanted to be. He peered closer still, desperately wishing to be there, in that place so far away. His senses seemed to respond to his subconscious desires and he blinked back startled tears when he suddenly inhaled the scent of car exhaust, felt a warm wind stirring his hair, and saw a familiar movement on the sidewalk.

 Russell Stammer sipped the piss-warm tea from his plastic travel cup as his wife of twenty-two years smiled a greeting.

 That painting… he loved it. The Northeastern United States had such lush beauty, captured in her art. He could almost smell the trees blanketing the ancient glacier-carved mountains, and the multi-layered beauty in the dying of their leaves during Autumn.

 The painting pierced Russell, who yearned to turn to his wife, expose himself and his dishonesty. He could tuck the painting under his arm and run because the painting had the power to take him to the secluded place of his imagination where he could relax and be himself. He could lie back, his ivory skin exposed and rose-bud lips open and waiting.

 The grinning artist sensed he was attracted to it, but Russell couldn’t see beyond the silver hoop piercing her thin nose. How could this alien-being produce something that touched him so deeply? His expression communicated he wasn’t going to buy anything, so she returned to her long strokes on a deserted American diner with a Maple tree growing through it. She stabbed the canvas with scarlet paint and ran her stained hands across her dreadlocks. Talented at depicting the dying American culture, she had probably never been there.

“Jolly good stuff.” He mumbled a compliment toward her. Sophia would become suspicious if he started buying street art; she already accused him of having a mid-life crisis and spending too much time surfing the World Wide Web.

Russell touched the fence keeping him from Green Park.
“It’s time to go.” His wife Sophia smoothed his tweed jacket. “You’ll miss your plane! Important meetings await you in New York, darling.” She kissed his bristled cheek.
He would shave when he got there.

 Interlocking fingers, they strolled along the edge of the flowerless park. Less than an hour later, he hugged his wife good-bye at the Hyde Park Corner tube station, bustled through Gatwick, and absorbed himself in a tattered flight magazine. He sat on the south side of the humming plane, breezing over the Atlantic to America for “business”. The clouds parted as he left England, the land of the sexually uptight. Dozing he shortened the commute.

 He was drawn to Vivian’s face. No, it was her eyes. They reminded him of a stormy sky over the ocean edged with fog. Her round face reminded him of his own mother’s. There was a mutual feeling of unconditional love that flowed between them when they met once a year in the private upstairs suite at “The Sweet Tomato Inn”. Her hands were so soft; her touch was gentle and soothing. She saw a side of him Sophia never knew existed. United by the internet and a few on-line chats, he knew this relationship had to be kept secret. What he had with Vivian could exist intimately only once a year.

 The first time he went there, he was nervous, but it became natural. It had been ten autumns, so Russell lied to his wife with ease now. This secret get-away kept his marriage alive.

 Awakening from his lofty thoughts Russell felt the plane touch down. It was late night so the airport was empty. He was able to shed his suit, shave, and change in the public bathroom comfortably. Signing the car rental agreement, buzzing past illuminated New York City and taking the Thru-way, Russell played tag with tractor trailers and dropped money into the booths along the way feeling his want growing steadily, winding through the mountains.

 Mist hugged the road making it hard to see. Russell decided not to stop. After six hours on the road, he should be arriving just before dawn. Their connection would be lovely. He wanted his needs met as soon as possible.

 He couldn’t see the landscape, the trees, the leaves, the colors, but the surface of the road was the same as he remembered and exactly as the Green Park artist depicted. Why didn’t he buy that painting? Sophia may have actually approved of it, and she may have even hung it up in the flat before he returned from his visit to America.

 In the rental car, Russell became a little black speck bumping along the dirt road, disappearing into the blazing horizon of the painting. He was drawn into the canvas as the tiny car crushed bits of decomposing leaves beneath its tires. He felt safe there inside the colorful strokes brought about by some young naïve artist’s imagination waiting for purchase.

 The parking lot was empty. The door was unlocked as always. He moved swiftly up the stairs and crawled into the cage-like bed wearing very little for his nap before Vivian arrived. The quilt smelled as fresh as it always did. It was pale blue this time with sailboats on it.
“Good morning baby.” She always spoke in a whisper. “How’s my boy?”
 He didn’t speak. She requested that he not speak. Opening his eyes, he looked upon her loveliness. Crying, Russell got into character, enjoying what his $1,000 bought for him. He would be bottle-fed, burped, read to and bathed, and Vivian would change his diaper for the next twenty-four hours. Russell savored every moment losing himself.

 Upon returning to London he’d buy the painting; it would remind him of his innocent pleasures at “The Sweet Tomato”. He’d need the lurid painting to mentally escape for the next 365 days of his normal and mundane middle-aged life. As the rich work would take him there with one emotional glance, Sophia would give her consent.



invitation divination    house of cards     black market








Home | Stories | MyBlagz.com | Blog | Contact Page