Despite the glare of the sun reflecting directly off the glass, I could make out the portrait in the shop window. Not that the painting itself was remarkable; the subject was a girl in her late twenties, demurely dressed almost to the point of dowdy, hands folded on her lap like La Gioconda. There was no enigmatic smile but there were the eyes. I slowly paced the shop's façade watching the eyes follow my movements. I had seen this before in a number of paintings but these eyes were not only following me, but were seeing me with such deep incisiveness and penetration that I felt guilt and pleasure in the same moment.
The shop owner was a portly man whose right hand preoccupied itself with the repetitive task of pressing his glasses to his face using the bridge.
"I don't know who she is," he panted, looking sidelong at me, "ghastly picture which refuses to sell."
"And the artist?"
"A woman calling herself Romance."
"She paints well." I commented.
The man grunted and shrugged. "The subject's a bit - well you know…well she's not glamorous is she Sir?"
"No. But those eyes. Can you see them?"
"Can't say I can - well not beyond the service of affording their owner the luxury of sight."
"How much?" I asked.
He addressed a small book which he took from his pocket, and gave me a figure in lira, francs, sterling and American dollars - this being an age before the Euro turned the luxurious texture of colourful currency into a pale whitewashed impression. I whistled softly and again he shrugged his shoulders.
"The artist has set the price. I deal with the agent only."
There was a long pause during which he gathered his breath. "I personally would not pay more than the canvas and frame expense, monsieur."
I arrived at my pension in the dark and made a small fire which raised the spirits of a cheerless room. I sat and brooded as I listlessly spooned a thin soup around its bowl. I knew to the last centime what I had in my meagre account. Even if I sold the Rolex my father had given me as part of his legacy, I would be short by a long margin. I took stock of the spartan apartment at my few possessions mentally realising and totalling their value. I was still short by about ten thousand francs.
I sighed. A bank loan was certainly out of the question. I pondered the problem till I fell asleep.
The girl coming out of the sea was unmistakably Romance - the girl from the painting. As she strode powerfully against the waves her brown shoulders broke through the surf. She entered the shallows, the water running in long rivulets down her rounded breasts, coursing her stomach and thigh, her legs making a wake in their passing. Finally she stood in ankle deep water, forcing water from her long hair with her fingers. She put her hand behind my neck and drew my face to her own.
"What are you thinking?" she asked in a low voice.
"Are we - that is - am I dreaming?"
"Yes. Of course."
She drew my face to hers and painted a soft salty kiss on my mouth. She withdrew her lips just far enough to tease before placing them over my own again with gentle passion which she injected with her tongue. I caught my breath and ran my hands through her damp hair, over her shoulders. It was as cool as the sea she had come from and smooth making the journey to her back and buttocks a natural and sensual route. Romance kissed me more deeply now, sighing, hands behind my head, pressing her lips more firmly to my own. Gently kneading the flesh of her buttock, she responded by drawing her leg along my side and I could allow my hand to complete its journey to her soft mound. My fingers touched gently on her warm flesh and she broke the kiss to sigh gently.
Her hands ran under my shirt, across my shoulders and down my back. Then suddenly I was naked. There was no actual time I removed my clothes - but it was so right that I suddenly wasn't wearing them.
Her thighs pressed against mine with an urgency and we sank down to the soft sand.
I kissed her lips individually, her neck, her shoulders as my hand gently teased between her legs. She raised he head to allow me to nuzzle against her throat, while her hand quested in the space between our bodies.
With blessed ecstasy, her hand closed around my erection. My mouth, now on her shoulder, moved downwards. My hand was already covering one of her breasts and I uncovered it as my mouth took her nipple inside, to play, to suck, to tease.
The spoon I was holding fell from my hand, clattering on the ceramic tiles. Even as I awoke Romance's final words crossed between the states of my slumber.
"You can yet afford me."
It was about 2.30 in the morning as I pulled on a rain mac and stepped into the cold night. I turned my collar against the drizzle and walked in quick measured strides.
The avenue was almost dark except for the lights from the gallery where footlights shone onto the window display. I stood and looked at the portrait again which due, maybe to the night lighting or something intangible - as yet undefined, had taken on a new character. The eyes, as soulful as ever, looked back with the certain knowledge that we had met. I stood for long moments staring at the face, oblivious to the water running down my own. A sharp rapping sound caught my attention.
"Monsieur." The owner rapped on the glass door and opened it. I gratefully stepped inside.
"You are working late - or very early." I commented.
"And you are out walking late." He countered.
I stood feeling wet and foolish in the shop foyer looking at the shop owner in his pyjamas and robe. Finally he smiled and reached into the pocket of his robe, drew out a scrap of paper.
"I have good news for you on this painting. The artist is reconsidering."
The paper had a single price - only in francs - still shy of what I had in my account. I shook my head and passed back the note. Even with mortgaging my precious watch and all my other possessions I was not going to make that figure. It was admittedly less distant than before, but a man who cannot swim is as dead dumped a mile from the shore as he is ten miles.
The man shrugged and again I told him that he was working late.
"I was asleep monsieur, then I was not. I was lying awake and then next, walking down the stairs." Again that gallic shrug. It was an odd explanation that seemed to suit him.
Sleeping till ten the next day I was too late for work and frittered my time watching the shop. I watched people come and go and the owner periodically look out at me, over the top of the display paintings, pushing back his glasses in a compound gesture of sympathy and reproach.
It was mid afternoon when the painting was removed from the window. Shocked, I strode across the road, narrowly avoided being hit by a car, and with a single motion opened the door and entered the shop.
The small shopkeeper was wrapping the painting in brown paper and a tall man in a pin striped suit was counting money out from a large wallet.
