Brushstrokes
written by: Jasmine Johnstone
Bass thumped in Marla’s chest as the speakers drowned out all other noise. Shadowy bodies danced all around her, packed close, faces obscured by the glare of bright, coloured lights. She raised her arms and closed her eyes, letting the music spill through her, swaying in time. After several minutes her face was slick with sweat, and she shuffled between people’s arms towards the bar.
‘A vodka lemonade please,’ she said to the bartender, cupping her hands around her mouth to be heard.
‘I’ll get it,’ came a deep voice, close enough to her ear to graze her neck pleasantly with breath. She shivered. Turning to look at him, she raised her eyebrows. He had a friendly smile, stubble across his chin and cheeks, and dark eyes that sparkled in the lights. A flush spread through her and settled deep in her stomach.
‘It’s fine,’ she said, shaking her head slowly, but he just grinned and tapped his card on the machine before she could think. She took the drink from the bartender, hoping he wouldn’t see her unsteady hand.
‘James,’ he said, raising his glass and bumping it against hers.
‘Marla,’ she replied. She took a deep gulp, wincing a little as the ice hit her teeth.
‘So, Marla, I’m guessing you aren’t here alone tonight,’ he said. His eyes travelled over her body, and she looked away self-consciously as he took in her long-sleeved, flowy dress; it stood out among the sea of sequins and barely-there clothes. She shook her head.
‘My friends are somewhere—’ she trailed off, gesturing to the throng of dancers.
‘Perhaps we should join them,’ he said, raising an eyebrow at her and draining the rest of his glass. She couldn’t help but giggle. He plucked up her hand and led her straight to the middle of the dance floor. The music had a deep, sensual rhythm and she let herself give in as he landed softly behind her, hands on her waist. She leant back against him with her eyes closed, tensing slightly as his body pressed against hers. Her head found the solid wall of his chest and she moved her hips in time with the music, his hands guiding her, until she melted against him like syrup.
They stayed like that until their clothes stuck to them, their faces were slick, and Marla’s hair was damp against her head. She turned slowly to face him, and his expression was serious, like he was mesmerised. He looked as though he was drinking in all the details of her face, diving into her eyes. He brushed a finger lightly down her cheek, her neck, stopping at the collar of her dress. It’d been three years since a man had been this close. Three years since the accident twisted her from beautiful to monstrous. The mirror had never forgiven her since. She swallowed hard, shaking her head to clear it, but he stepped close enough that their breath mingled hotly in the thick air between them. Closing her eyes, she let herself relax into a kiss, forgetting everything but his lips and his hands; one in her hair, one sliding up the back of her thigh.
‘Let’s leave,’ he said, cheek to her cheek, tickling her ear. She nodded. They ducked and weaved as people danced around them, unaware of their surroundings. Fresh air hit her like a wall as they stepped out of the club. She was suddenly aware of the few vodkas she’d had, and the world seemed to sway a little around her. The dark sky with its unmoving moon and cold air swept away the din of the club. He hailed a taxi smoothly with one hand, the other still clasped around hers. Her legs wobbled as she stepped across the cobbled street and fell clumsily into the taxi. Her mind was quickly sobering, and she felt the sickly grip of fear as he opened his door and plopped into the seat next to her. His thumb stroked an absent-minded circle over her hand as he gripped her fingers lightly and leant forward to give the driver his address. They sat in silence for the short journey.
‘It’s not much,’ he said, suddenly shy, as the taxi chugged off behind them and she looked at the peeling, red door. He punched in a combination, and they stepped over a pile of discarded post, up the concrete stairwell past multiple other doors, until they reached his. He had a welcome mat outside the door and when she stepped inside it smelt clean, and everything seemed bright and tidy.
‘It’s lovely,’ she said, her confidence piquing slightly at his nervousness. The walls were a soft mocha colour, with leafy plants dotted around the living room and bright pictures on the walls. A large, framed painting of a landscape hung above the sofa. As she got closer, she saw that it was comprised of many dots of thickly applied paint.
‘This is amazing,’ she said quietly, touching the textured paint with a featherlight finger. He blushed.
‘I do it in my spare time.’
‘You did this?’ she said, whipping around to look at him. He blushed even deeper but smiled and nodded.
‘Wow.’
‘It’s really nothing special,’ he said, waving his hand away.
‘As if! It’s gorgeous. What about these,’ she said, gesturing to the other paintings around the room, ‘Are they yours?’
‘Some of them,’ he said, stepping closer to her, ‘Like this one.’ He pointed at a painting of a lion, made with fiery licks of deep, warm-toned paint.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she whispered, as he stepped behind her and kissed the side of her neck.
‘Yes,’ he replied, sweeping her hair out of the way and kissing up the side of her face from behind. She arched her back, leaning her hips into his and he groaned as she reached a hand up and grasped the back of his head. He took her hand, leading her to the bedroom. It was small and cosy, with plush red bedding and low light from the lamp.
‘I don’t know if I can do this,’ she said, tears welling in her eyes as panic gripped her and she felt like the breath was being squeezed from her lungs. He stepped back to look in her eyes.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked softly.
‘I just… I haven’t—’
‘You’re a virgin?’ he said, eyebrows shooting up. She shook her head.
‘I haven’t done it for a long time.’
‘That’s OK. We can take it slow.’
‘No, you don’t understand.’ She took a deep, steadying breath. If she didn’t tell him, she couldn’t go through with it, but if she did tell him, he might not want to. He looked at her with such an earnest expression, hands hanging by his side, that she almost unravelled right there and burst out crying. ‘I had an accident,’ she said quietly.
James closed the distance between them again and brushed a strand of hair from her face, sweeping it over her shoulder. He planted the whisper of a kiss on her cheek, and she closed her eyes. Everything in her wanted to go to him. She wanted to feel his hands, his kiss. She wanted to open for him, throw her head back and wrap her arms around him.
‘Three years ago, I was in a car accident. The car caught fire, and I was burnt pretty badly. I was lucky really, but still—’ she trailed off, looking at the floor as a few tears escaped. She never really spoke about it, certainly not about how she felt.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, wrapping his arms round her and pulling her close to his chest. She felt his back underneath her fingers, solid and sure.
‘I’ve never let anyone see it,’ she whispered against his neck, hiding her face from him.
‘We don’t have to do anything if you’re not—’ he started, cut off as she pressed her lips against his and coaxed them open. He kissed her deeply, tongue against hers, hands running over her hair, down her back. He propped a thigh between her legs, and she gasped as it pressed against her. Undressing slowly, maintaining eye contact, he let his clothes fall to the floor one by one, until he was standing bare before her.
‘Here I am,’ he said, breathing heavily, daring her to be brave. Marla’s eyes raked over his body, hunger growing in the pit of her stomach, warmth pooling between her legs. Broad shoulders framed a lithe body, long limbs hanging straight and strong. In the centre of his chest was a jagged, raw line, like a large claw had slashed through him. ‘Heart surgery,’ he said as she looked at his scar. Closing her eyes, she opened the buttons on her dress with shaky fingers. Marla licked her lips as her mouth went dry, and she took a bracing breath. She shimmied the fabric from her shoulders; it breezed past her skin as it fell to the floor. Eyes tight shut, not daring to look at his face, she unclasped her bra and dropped it. Slowly, she peeled her underwear down her hips and kicked them to the side. She could imagine the grimace as he took in her disfigurement. Skin shiny and stiff, textured like bark, it spread across her torso and up her breasts like a stain. Silence was heavy between them as she kept her eyes screwed shut, fists balled up tightly.
‘Beautiful,’ he said, voice thick with longing. She opened her eyes and gasped as she saw him on his knees, looking up at her. His chest was heaving, like his scar was breathing too, and his lips were slightly parted. Hand gripping her hip, he pulled her towards him, and she let her head fall as his lips trailed kisses softly over her body in worship, scarred skin and surrounding skin alike.
‘Beautiful,’ he whispered against her stomach as he rested his cheek on it.
‘Beautiful,’ he whispered against her thigh as he cocked her leg and draped it over his shoulder.
‘Beautiful,’ he whispered as he looked into her eyes, mouth closing over her. A shudder went through her and she moaned, gripping his hair, holding his gaze.
‘Yes,’ she said, surrendering, ‘Beautiful.’
- Brushstrokes - January 27, 2025
- By Thine Own Hand - September 19, 2024
