@bewrath : liked for a starter ↳ – [ call ]
soft stripes of carefully ministered orange pop out of the canvas , wishbone wrists maneuvering the paintbrush with skillful precision to create still life: a bowl sits idly by the windowsill, cracked and rustic, the fruits are beginning to spoil -- some of them have mold, the freshest among them being a bright, round orange that’s nestled among its rotting peers, inevitably condemned to the same fate. Atop, a crown of wilted roses dangles, a single petal hangs lose, adding a spike of burgundy to the morbid scenery. In her portrayal, the flowers remain half-painted, the bowls empty, and missing its fruit, save for the very early start of what might later take the shape of an orange.
she hears heavy soles nearing across the polished marble flooring before ever catching a waft of him ---aftershave, soap, something of hopelessness to his frothing-at-the-mouth-drive that feels unkind as it assaults her senses; adelaide scrunches up her rabbited nose, a creature of gentle aromas herself --- her smooth, peachy flesh permeates a perfume of fresh strawberries and champagne, and if you were to nestle into the crook of her neck, you'd be caught in a daze of channel nº5; classic and predictable, undeniably crafted to fit within this mold of tame femininity .
❛ you are quite beautiful, you know ? ❜ she beckons, light as a feather, not cheap nor shallow, as it might’ve been in someone else’s mouth - it’s no misguided attempt to harness sympathy, of which she has in bulks, rather a calculated , opening gesture that invites him to engage, a slip of adulation coated in this thin veneer of sincerity; symmetry, as one with a trained eye will tell you, is a magnetic force; it can be found in a butterfly’s wing clever design, or a perfect, slow descending snowflake --- today, she’s found it in the outline of jaw as his mirrored image bounces off reflective glass windows. ❛ you should let me paint your portrait , sometime , ❜ adelaide proposes, seemingly unbothered or comfortable enough not to glance backwards; her undivided attention remains on the canvas, spine arched into one of those dying flowers she has arranged, and a single knee pressed tight to her chest. the white shirt she wears hangs off her collarbone like a ghostly sheet, a few sizes too big to belong to her, smeared with random blots of watercolor. ❛ it’d be a waste not to, since you’re so committed to... what are you doing, again? ❜ sniffing--- he’s sniffing around like a bloodthirsty hound, and part of her is happy to indulge him.
