It is her turn in the pink upholstered chair.
Her body, rigid a moment ago at the peak of her passion, has passed
into a state of apparent bonelessness. She is sighing vocally but
weakly. She makes no move to lower the skirt wrapped around her hips.
Her legs are still spread wide by the bulk of his form, but her knees
sag inward and her hands hang open, limp, at the sides of the chair.
As a shudder rocks her one last time, he sits back on his heels,
licking his lips and smiling.
Continue reading “The Artist” by Chiaroscuro