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— Mmm… umumum… — the girl hummed softly to herself, dragging a thin brush with a milky stroke across the raw shadows, squinting so the light from the window hit the canvas just right.
The cigarette dangled between her lips, smoke curling up to short chestnut strands, and the dark dress on thin straps did exactly what it was made for: tightened the waist, hugged the hips, pushed the tits upward, to the brush, to the canvas, to the gaze. One strap slid off her shoulder, exposing warm skin that shivered from the draft. On the easel the painting already had clear outlines: a damp Parisian rooftop and a yellow rectangle of a window, inside of which the silhouette of a girl staring out could be seen. The same kind of window, through which — if it were open — some random neighbor could see her right now.
— Colette? — a voice pinged from the messenger on the laptop. — Are you even listening? — Sophie Durand’s voice came from the headphones, her stubborn gallerist from Marais.
— I hear you, — she replied, moving her brush toward the jar of thinner. — But call me Antoine when we’re talking business.
— How many years can we argue about papers, — Sophie sighed. — You passed the ID check, all your documents say “Colette Moreau,” and in the contracts it says “she.” I have to sell “her,” not argue with “him.”
Colette, Antoine, smirked with one corner of her lips, never letting go of the cigarette. The second she straightened, her tits swayed, the dress slipping just enough to show a bit of nipple. She inhaled at the sight, then set the brush aside, tugged the dress higher and fixed the strap back on her shoulder.
— Nobody’s buying “her,” Sophie. The last three months — zero. Even your Loïc didn’t come back.
— Loïc would’ve come back if you hadn’t scared him off. You don’t leave the house without that baggy hoodie and hood. You could’ve at least prepared for the meeting with him. I know damn well you dress perfectly normal at home. You’re so cute in your red dress! — Sophie fell in love with her own thought aloud. — I just don’t get why you can’t always look like that?
— Because it’s not “always,” — she answered, exhaling smoke and narrowing her eyes. — This is the apartment. This is the canvas. This is me on the canvas. Out there — it’s shop windows and eyes. Out there I’m just a poster.
— A successful woman is always, or almost always, a “Poster,” darling — Sophie sang. — And the brighter, the better.
— You’ve got posters in your shop windows, — she exhaled, shifting the cigarette to the corner of her lips. — I’ve got these things on my tits. Are they supposed to sell too?
The strap slipped again. She pulled it up, and her tits gave a heavy little bounce, as if they had a breath of their own. The brush trembled in her fingers.
— They are, — Sophie confirmed without blinking. — And your voice. And your story. Loïc will be at “La Verrière” tomorrow. I arranged it, Colette, don’t blow this chance.
Antoine, Colette, took a drag and exhaled into the ceiling. For a second the gray cloud painted another rooftop, another window...Full story (11 200 characters - 2 parts) is open to subscribers here or on Patreon