Frida

Sunlight seeping through the blanket. Warmth radiating through her body, awakening her slowly. Eyelids flicker and open. Morning sunlight streaming pale-yellow into the room, through the curtains. Blue slingbag on the floor, next to a stack of canvas boards and scattered paintbrushes.

Frida moves her cheek against the soft cotton of the pillow. It feels nubbly and comforting against her skin. As she drifts into consciousness, a host of sensations floats through her. The  morning light dapples the walls of the room through lace curtains. Her bare legs brush together as she turns over and raises one drowsy hand to cushion her head. A hint of peach-fragrance of her body lotion drifts to her nostrils, and she nuzzles into her arm.

Pile of clothes on chair. Ashes of roses satin. Aubergine velvet. White cotton. Striped wool scarf. Chiffon with threads of silver running through. Fabric pooling on the floor in a pile of emerald green. Dark mahogany bedstand. Cracked porcelain cup with jewellery overflowing out of it. Silver bracelet with turquoise beads. Antique ivory cameo brooch. Oversized fake diamond ring. Ebony bead necklace.

She'd gone to sleep struggling to find the a theme for her new painting that would inspire her to make the first few strokes, and slowly ideas start to flow through her mind. Contentment. A languid nude. A cat, half-asleep and purring in the sun. Serenity. A sunny meadow. Solitude.

Colours and brush strokes dance in front of Frida's eyes. She feels the familiar pleasure of the birth of new inspiration, but it is muted; muffled by sleep. Idly, she stretches one foot out from under her quilt and gazes down at it. The aesthete in her is pleased by the contrast of her cherry-red toenails against the honey-brown tones of her skin and the white of the quilt. Slowly her eyes move up her leg as she pushes her quilt aside.

Chocolate skin, gleaming where the sun fell on it, a round thigh obscured by the bedclothes. An arm emerging from an old grey oversized t-shirt. A long narrow crimson scab from some scratch she'd received unknowingly stretched down the length of her arm, puckering the skin as it healed. Frida examines it lazily, digging one fingernail under a part of the scab and peeling it off to see the tender new skin underneath.

Slowly, an image forms in her head. A woman, nude, resting her arms on drawn-up knees. Her dark hair falling in tendrils over her shoulders as she leaned her head back, laughing out at the viewer. Frida stops her examination of her arm and leans back against the pillows. The woman in her painting should be revelling in her body, in the fitness of relaxed muscles, of her supple bare skin. There would be no artifice about the woman; no jewellery, no make-up, no pose. She would occupy the frame; there would be nothing in the foreground to distract from her, or to locate her in time and place. The woman would stand for womanhood or the universal female body, beautiful in its flaws, perfect in its imperfection.

Frida lifts her arms above her head, stretching languorously. She arches her back, smiling slightly to herself. It's good to be a painter with ideas blossoming in her mind, knowing that soon she would wake up and have the whole day to paint. She knows she won't even stop to eat, but for now, she'll stay in bed and enjoy the peace of the morning. This painting is pure inspiration, and will be beautiful. She can already see the lines of the woman's body, the way the light falls on her. She takes a deep breath, taking in the morning-fresh air. It feels cool and thin in her nostrils. On a morning like this, she always feels as though the day was a clean canvas, waiting for her to splash colour onto it. 

The bed dips and moves as he stirs. She holds her breath, not wanting to wake him. She wants to be alone for a little while longer, to crystallise the painting to herself. Once he wakes up, the familiar and well-loved routine of making coffee and breakfast together will begin, and the demands of the day will set in. Frida is motionless, and he seems to settle back into sleep. Her mind turns back to the painting. The last two weeks have been a waste, with only a couple of soulless paintings to show for her many hours at the easel. To finally feel inspiration is a relief and a joy, and it makes her feel powerful and vibrant. She extends her arms in front of her, embracing the day, imagining the inspiration running through her veins and to the ends of her toes and fingers. She hums in her head, waggling her fingers in time.

His arm. Over her waist. Drawing her into a hug. Smothering her. Annoyance. She wriggles out. Tries to slip her fingers into his hand instead. He draws her close, folding her body into a small shape against his. Enfolding her in his warm male embrace. She doesn't want it. Wants to stretch out. Be left alone. Plan her painting. Heavy arm and leg draped over her. Warm breath on her neck. Quilt pushed up to her nose. Stifling her.

For a minute, Frida lies in bed, feeling resentful. If she moves him, he'll wake up and the day will start. But if she remains like this, his presence intrudes on her every sense, occupying her. A resigned sigh later, she pushes him away gently, and swings out of bed. Kissing his frown, she piles the quilt around him so he won't wake up, then walks over to the canvas that awaits her.