The Painter

Callie knelt in front of the blank canvas, squinting through the smoke that now drifted in front of her eyes. She always kept a lit cigarette in her mouth while she worked. It made her feel like an ancient Greek seeking truth from an oracle. Also, Donna thought it was quite sexy. That was reason enough.

Speaking of Donna, the blond Aphrodite of Callie’s affection had now pulled her onto her rear end, her chest pressed against Callie’s back, legs wrapped around her waist. She snaked a hand around Callie’s breast, a teasing finger playing with her nipple ring.

“Quick,” she whispered urgently. “Before you start working.”

Callie grinned sheepishly. “I have to go.”


“I really do.”

She could feel Donna pull away, though her warmth was still at Callie’s back.

“She was my friend.”

“She was more than that.”

Callie didn’t know what to say to a truth so plainly spoken. She kissed Donna’s alabaster neck.

“I’ll be back,” she said, and walked out to the silent sound of love reproached.

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