The smell of turpentine and fresh coffee hangs in the air as I enter the gallery – sharp, artificial, but somehow alive. The walls are plastered with garish splashes of color, abstract forms that seem to move if you stare too long. I usually hate these exhibition openings, but my friend Clara insisted. She loves art, loves being around people. I, on the other hand, always feel like an intruder in these crowds, as if I’m standing on a stage whose script I don’t know.
I let my gaze wander, searching for Clara, who has already lost herself at a buffet of olives and small tarts. Instead, my eyes snag on a man standing in front of a large painting. He’s wearing a dark blue suit that fits perfectly but doesn’t look custom-tailored – more like a second skin. His posture is relaxed, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of red wine. I recognize him immediately: it’s Jonas, my neighbor two floors down. We’ve passed each other a few times in the stairwell, exchanged polite nods, maybe a word once. But here, in the dim gallery lighting, he looks different. Somehow… more intense, as if the light had carved shadows into his features.
Jonas turns around, as if he sensed my thoughts. His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The conversations around us, the clinking of glasses, Clara’s laughter somewhere – it all becomes a dull roar, a sea of noise where only he is an island. He smiles, a narrow, almost shy smile, and raises his glass slightly. I return the greeting instinctively, feeling my fingers grip the stem of my own glass as if it were an anchor.
Then Clara is back, pressing to my side, talking about an artist she admires. I nod, but my gaze keeps drifting to Jonas. He’s now in conversation with an older woman who’s gesturing wildly. Still, he seems to watch me from the corner of his eye, as if I were a painting he needs to study. It’s a feeling that courses through me – a mix of curiosity and a faint tremor in the pit of my stomach that tightens like a string.
At some point, when Clara is deep in discussion with a gallery owner, I break away from her. I need air, I say. She just waves me off, absorbed in her shop talk. I step out onto the small terrace belonging to the gallery. The night is cool, the sky over the city a deep blue, pierced by the lights of high-rises like fireflies in velvet. I lean over the railing, breathe deeply to rid myself of the smell of paint and people, and close my eyes.
“Need a break too?”
I spin around. Jonas stands in the doorway, his jacket now open, the shirt underneath slightly rumpled, as if he’d hastily unbuttoned it. He steps closer but keeps a respectful distance – half a meter that feels like a boundary about to be crossed. “I never like these events,” he says. “Too much talk about art that nobody really understands.” His tone is dry, self-deprecating, and I laugh softly.
“I’m only here because my girlfriend loves them.”
“Mine too,” he says. His girlfriend, I know, is a woman named Sophie, whom I’ve sometimes seen with him in the stairwell. A tall blonde woman, always cheerful, with a laugh that echoes through the hallways.
A silence falls, but not an uncomfortable one. It’s charged with something unspoken, like the air before a storm. I watch him swirl the wine glass in his fingers, letting the red liquid run along the inner wall. His hands are slender, fingers long, knuckles prominent. I suddenly wonder what it would be like to feel those hands on my skin – their warmth, their precision. The thought surprises me, hits me with a force that almost makes me stagger, and I feel a pull deep in my belly.
“Should I explain one of the paintings to you?” he asks. “I know a little about it.”
I nod before I can think. He leads me back into the gallery, but not to the large canvases. Instead, he goes to a small niche, almost hidden, where a single painting hangs. It shows a woman from behind, her body only hinted at, the contours flowing like water. She stands before a window, the light falling on her naked back, the spine a gentle line, the hips a curve fading into shadow. The image breathes a stillness, an intimacy that immediately grips me and won’t let go.
“This is my favorite piece,” he says quietly. “It’s called ‘The Last Color of Evening.'”
I stare at the painting, feeling him stand close behind me. His breath brushes my neck, barely perceptible, but I feel it down to my toes – a hint of warmth that leaves goosebumps on my skin. “It’s beautiful,” I whisper, and my voice sounds hoarse, foreign.
“It’s about the moment before night falls,” he says. “When the light bathes everything in gold one last time, and then vanishes. That single moment that contains everything – all the longing, all the beauty.”
His hand touches my arm. Lightly, as if by accident, but I know it’s no accident. It’s a question, an invitation. I turn around, now standing directly in front of him. His face is only inches from mine. I see tiny wrinkles around his eyes, the hint of stubble on his upper lip. His mouth is slightly open, and I can feel his breath on my lips.
“We shouldn’t,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound convinced, not even to myself. It’s a weak protest, a last hold that’s already giving way.
“I know,” he says. But he doesn’t step back. Instead, he places his hand on my cheek. His skin is warm, rough at the fingertips, and I close my eyes, leaning into the touch as if it were the only thing holding me. It’s as if I’ve been waiting for this without knowing it – my whole life long. His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is gentle, almost hesitant, but then becomes more probing. The tip of his tongue traces my lower lip, and I open to him, let him in. He tastes of red wine and something bitter, maybe coffee, and I drink in that taste. My hands find his belt, pull him closer. I feel his response, the hardness beneath the fabric of his pants, and the thought sends a hot surge through my body that makes me throb between my legs.
“Not here,” he murmurs against my mouth, his breath warm and urgent.
“Clar
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