Breaking away from the others, I wandered around the final room, on the periphery of the oppressive throng, taking in the beauty of the art of men from a time long past. My overwhelmed gaze distractedly skimmed, unable to fix itself, unable to rest, unable to find an object of pure visceral attraction.
Until I saw it. Until I saw her.
From the margin, she drew me in, the invisible thread reeling me closer and closer, parting the tight knit crowd of men intently studying her every detail. Finally before her, I stood transfixed, barely able to catch my breath, contain the gasp, control the rapid thumping in my chest.
My eyes began to roam, feverishly at first, taking in the swirls and curves, the rumpled sheets, the generous pillowy bed, her naked indolence, the dirty neutral palette, afraid my time would prematurely come to an end with the arrival of yet another interfering audience.
But very soon after, we were alone. Taking my cue from Bonnard, I began to languidly absorb, feasting on each stroke, each ridge, each arc and twist and bend, slowly devouring the sensually and wantonly laid out body displaying its womanly splendour.
And as I stood spellbound by the dozing woman, you came to me, crashed over me, flooded and overtook me. As I stood amid the hustle and bustle in the gallery, I rode the wave of your words, your thoughts, your face.
The wave of you.
I stood facing the canvas longing to be her with you as my artist, you as my voyeur, you as my lover on the other side of the frame watching, gazing and patiently waiting for the end of my slumber.