I recall exactly when I realized what she was. I was in a stupor all that summer: dozing fitfully in the heat of the day and spending my nights in a frenzy of desire. She would appear no earlier than dusk each evening, almost the very moment the last golden rays faded from the brick building across the street from me. I learned to wait for her, bare legs dangling off the fire escape for the moment she'd be there, like magic, waiting on the street for me to invite her in.
I was foggy-headed around her, barely aware of my own thoughts and actions, completely under her spell. When she left me I'd ache for her; I'd lay on my bed, just a creaky mattress on the floor, tossing and turning, my head filled with images of her, memories of the smell of her, the feel of her under my hands and lips.
If it wasn't for that power she had over me, I'm sure I would have connected the dots sooner. The wooziness, the tender little marks she'd leave on my neck, the way she'd turn voracious during my monthly moon, burying her face between my legs with a deep and feral hunger — all of these were signs I could have recognized if only I'd been in my right mind.
I must have painted fourty portraits of her that summer. I rendered her in oils most often, chiaroscuro portraits dark with the shadow I must have sensed from her, but I also sketched her in oil pastels, in gouache, and several times with dark, soft drawing pencils whose charcoal marks would end up all over her porcelain skin after we made love. Before Lucine, I'd always worked from photographs, but never once in all those nights did I think to try to capture her with my camera. It may have been a dead giveaway if I had.
Instead, I needed to use my hands to create her likeness. It was the only way I could possess her.
In every other way, she possessed me.
Every night that summer was hot, but one night in particular, the air was electric. When she arrived below my window, the street was nearly empty — unusual for my part of town on a summer night — but the pedestrians had fled the oppressive weight of the air, and as Lucine murmured "Hello, Olivia," I heard a rumble of thunder roll its warning.
By the time I got downstairs to open the door for her, the first fat drops of rain were hitting the sidewalk, glistening in the light of the street lamps as they hissed to life. "I love thunderstorms," she said with her catlike smile, and passed through my doorway to run her delicate fingers over my sternum. "Don't you?"
She had her clothes off almost before I'd closed the door, a loose black dress pooling at her feet. I never knew with Lucine whether she wanted me to paint her or whether she wanted to make love; it could be either, it could be both. I had learned to wait on her pleasure.
As thunder broke again outside, still distant, she beckoned to me with a crooked finger.
I moved to her and stood in front of her, and she cupped my face in her beautiful, perfect hands. Then she moved her hands up to my hair, loosening it from the messy pile I kept it in until it fell down around my shoulders. She stroked my cheek, ran her thumbs over my throat, my collarbone, twisted the buttons of my shirt between her thumb and forefinger to release them. I wore one of my many oversized men's shirts, stained with paint, with nothing underneath; she pushed it off my shoulders and it fell to the floor.
I shivered as my chest was exposed, and she leaned forward to press her breasts against mine, smaller than hers, her firm nipples brushing against my skin.
