He was an avid painter since childhood. With a paintbrush he could turn an ordinary landscape into something from a dream. Landscapes weren’t his specialty. No. He was magnificent at painting the curves of the woman in the balcony next to his home. Wish lush strokes he would wait on the dunes for her to appear with her sheer robes and long slender legs. Her hips were supple and capacious and he loved to leave some room for the minds eye to wonder what those hips of hers could really do. Every night he awaited her presence, thinking about how he would paint her next, what body part he would focus on today, or what pose. She was an enigma, he loved to capture in his mind.
One night, while the painter sat on his beach chair with his easel in hand, waiting for her to step out into the cool air, a soft hum awoke him from his trance. Lo and behold, his Madonna was standing not five feet a way, luscious curves and all, draped in her robe. She didn’t speak but her eyes showed a world of curiosity. She must be wondering what I’m doing, he thought, but before he could speak she put her gentle fingers on his cheek and smiled a smile that lit up the night. Turning she took off her robe and let it fall gracefully to the sand, looked back at him, and walked into the ocean. With the moon in front of her she stopped and stood, motionless. His brush took over his easel, capturing her naked back, the top of her plump buttocks, the two small dimples in his back. He captured the way the moonlight shone on her, and the way the waves hugged her body. When he was done he sat, admiring the beauty in front of him. She caught him, ogling her and blushed the faintest pink across her chest and cheeks. Picking up her robe, she delicately slid into it, tied it just so and walked back up the dunes to her home.
The next day, the painter grabbed his portraits of his muse and took them to her home. Knocking quickly he almost turned away until suddenly she was at the door dressed in a long white dress with a slip that left the mind open to imagination.
“I’d like to show you something,” he whispered. Terrified of what she might say he started to turn away, the only thing stopping him was the touch of her fingertips on his shoulder. She came outside and looked at him as if saying, lead the way. They walked down the steps to the cove at the bottom of her balcony.
Lit with white lanterns and brisk from the ocean air, with the smell of salt permeating the senses, they walked in. Along the walls were all the paintings of his muse, lit with the moonlight and the help of the lanterns. She was speechless as she walked to each painting, taking it in, tears on her cheeks. When she arrived at the last one, her breath caught.
“Whats wrong,” he asked, placing a hand on the small of her back.
“You paint me,” she whispered, “as if I am beautiful.”
Stunned by her response, he grabbed her and pulled her into his arms.
“You are exquisite my dear,” he said into her ear. “Don’t let the mirror lie to you.”
Beauty isn’t always in the eye of the beholder, sometimes it is in the light of the moon.