Member-only story
Tigress of the Shrubland (10)
He lightly strokes a wrinkled map, lets his finger continue along the wall, pauses, stares at the city through a dusty window, and lets his arm fall. A sigh that betokens the next life crackles through him. He falls into a leather desk chair and touches his long, bony fingers to his temple, disturbs his snow-white hair.
An unlikely cough comes from the arrangement of fabrics and flowers in the center of his studio. He looks from under his brows and smiles. “I haven’t forgotten you, Danielle,” he says, which he believes to be true.
“Should I keep holding the pose…?” asks the woman who is frozen in time.
He pauses, swiveling his chair. “No,” he concludes with a dry smack of the lips. “I think you can go for today.” The woman departs. He appraises the unfinished painting that seeps discontent, and the smog of the city…
