His lips, soft and full. His exhales tickling the nape of my neck as he murmurs. His patience most of all. No detail neglected, no brushstroke left behind.
A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte is my favorite. I stand with my eyes closed with my back pressed against Bastian’s chest. His arms bracket me loosely on either side, hands resting on the railing. “It’s all dots,” he says against my ear. “Thousands of tiny points of color. Red and blue and yellow scattered everywhere. Up close, it’s almost incomprehensible. But step back, and suddenly, it’s a park on a summer afternoon.”
I feel his chest expand against my shoulder blades as he inhales.
“There’s a woman with a parasol in the foreground,” he continues. “A little girl in white is holding her hand. They’re both facing
