She has red goosebumps always, on the backs of her upper arms, like she draped them on a railing and it rusted to her. So today I don’t stretch my own canvas.
Usually romantic. Usually what I do. She gives me an old childhood dress, something that was soft enough to play in, something with curling faux-satin roses on the neck, an embroidered pastel studding. And I stretch it over a frame, make a taught wall, and sculpt her with oil.
Not today. I buy a prestretched canvas today. From Micheals. I break all the rules today. I take it back to the studio. A real art-school crime. Sneak in after closing so nobody sees. Golden hour giving my palette a warmth it won’t have in gallery light. Another crime. And I put such a small dab of red on my brush it can only reach the cheap canvas bumps.
There she is. Her upper arms.
