I left the flat to go shopping, collected what I needed, and decided to sit on the bench in the High Street. I had no intention of striking up conversation with the man sat next to me on the bench. Lost in my own thoughts, I hadn’t noticed him.
Pigeons waddled around my feet as crowds of office workers rushed past, on their lunch breaks. I’d never felt part of their world, not really. I kept strange hours as a painter, working day and night. I slept when I needed to, breaking away from the studio for supplies without being sure what time it was.
“I hope that’s paint”, he said.
I turned, taking a moment to focus, a slack-jawed idiot. “Huh?”
I looked down, turned my hands palm up. I’d covered them in vermilion, a bright red that looked inappropriate in the mid-day sun.
“It’s either that or you work in an abattoir.”
My gaze went from my hands to his face. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed him. The sun played there, making him magnificent. Grey eyes, unshaven, strong jaw, pink, pursed lips, smiling.
I felt a stir. It was so long since I’d been with a guy, since I’d communicated with anyone. He was beautiful, and my cock rose in appreciation. It was only then I remembered I’d come out with dungarees, but no underwear. I became coy.
“I’m a painter,” I said, in a rather pathetic voice.
“I gathered that. Would I like your work?”
“Ummm, I don’t know.”
He laughed again. I wasn’t sure if he was needling me, getting a rise out of me. He seemed to be enjoying my awkwardness.
“That’s the part where you say ‘Yes, would you like to come to my studio and view some of it?'”
We walked fast, me trying to re-position my awkward boner without him clocking it. Was he a buyer? Did he already know my work? It had been a while since I’d sold a piece, and I needed to eat. All I could think of, though, was the light falling on his face, glittering in his stubble. I watched the way he licked his lips as he talked, his tongue darting in and out in pinkish blurs.
Back at the studio I gave him the pitch, showing him this work and that. Describing my latest stylistic experiments and comparing them to my old.
He wasn’t interested. All he did was hook his hands in the pockets of his flat fronted trousers and stare at me.
“I didn’t come to here to buy. I came here to be fucked…”
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