Fixation

That is the only word that crosses Camila’s mind, as she wanders around the empty gallery while Yohan flows around on the opposite side. They’re not alone but it almost feels like it. With them is a middle-aged woman looking at Michelangelo’s ‘The Death of The Virgin’ painting which depicts the Virgin Mary as a real woman surrounded by weeping men. The woman wears a long olive cardigan around her neck, a black blouse, and cream-colored trousers. She inspects the painting, until her head drops, and she walks away from the painting, heading towards the clear double doors.

A chill runs down Camila’s spine when she turns. She watches Yohan’s back, with his delicate yet rough hands behind his back. She slowly walks to him, trying to envision the outline of his back through the thick black wool jacket. She’s two feet away from him. Her fingers only reach the air, never him or his coat.

Camila can’t tell if he feels her behind him, but if he does, he makes no attempts to move. She convinces herself that he can’t feel her skin’s coldness or her body’s closeness to him. She lets her fingers pretend they’re gracing his muscles, making patterns along imaginary skin, muscles, and bones. When she feels him stiffen, she takes a step back creating a larger gap between them.

“The Kiss”, she says out loud. Yohan turns and she points to the painting he was staring at. “They say that it’s the most intense and vivid depiction of a kiss in Western art history. They’re unrecognizable because Francesco Hayez, the painter, wanted the kiss to be the center of attention.”

Staring at the painting of a woman leaning back, as a man extends his left leg on a step of stairs, made Camila’s cheek flush. Yohan turns his body to her, taking a few steps until he’s next to her staring at the painting like he’s trying to look at what she’s staring at. When she looks back at him, he’s smiling. His Lips curled at the end and his cheeks are slightly flushed. She stares at his cheeks, her tongue darting out to her lips and all she thinks about pressing her lips to his red cheeks and biting them.

“I’m assuming you can tell me the history of all the paintings here,” he says softly as if only wanting her ears to hear his words. Yohan looks down at her while Camila is looking up at him.

“I can.”

She turns on her heels, pointing to a painting of two lovers wandering through the snow, in thick clothing while sharing an umbrella, “Lovers walking in the snow, seventeenth century. It’s believed that Suzuki Harunobo, the painter, wanted to imply a michiyuki or route to a romantic suicide.”

Yohan follows at her heels attentively, listening to her words and inspecting the paintings. He takes in every sentence and facts collecting them in the deepest parts of his brain. Camila continues spewing facts about paintings followed by names and dates. She explains every detail behind the painting with the painter’s hidden intention and her own opinion. Yohan keeps quiet, often observing her face and seeing specks of white in her eyes, twinkling with excitement. When she stops dumping information on him, she’s red with a wide smile, “Sorry.”

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He shakes his head, “You have nothing to apologize for.”

They stand close to each other, unmoving. Time feels like another painting that stands still on the walls around them. “The first painting I fell in love with was ‘Death and the Maiden’. I thought it was refreshing to see death painted as a human.”

“Marianne Stokes. Seventeenth century”, Yohan’s tone of voice matches Camilas, soft with reminiscence laced in each word.

Camila hums. She stands still next to Yohan until her stomach starts to softly rumble in the peaceful quiet. She clears her throat and turns to Yohan, hands on her back.

“It’s been very nice seeing you,” she says, her tone stiffer than she intended. Yohan turns, and smiles, shedding off his coat. He opens it wide as if waiting for her to step into it. Camila stiffens, and she can only imagine how red her face is and how wide her eyes are. Yohan inspects her face, catching on to her embarrassment and hesitance.

“Likewise. It’s a cold night,” Yohan replies, circling her until he’s behind her and she can smell pinewood, jasmine, and an odd scent of gunpowder. “Just as a precaution,”

Her voice is soft, “Thank you.”

Camila slides her arms inside the coat, letting Yohan’s fingers grace her shoulder blades, then her neck when he moves in front of her, making sure the coat is snuggling her enough that coldness can touch her skin. Her gums tingle, and she can feel them open and widen, teeth slowly contracting. Their sharpness touches her lips gum, and bottom teeth.

She notes that he does not say anything about the coldness of her body, but she can hear his heart patter violently, thumping against his ribcage like a caged animal. A thrill runs through her veins at the small insinuation that the mere closeness of her to him has made his heart wild.

“Have a good night, Camila”, his voice is soft and warm like honey.

She’s aware that if she were to open her mouth, Yohan would only see sharp predatory teeth, so she settles on a shy smile and nods. She walks away from him, hugging the coat and when she’s outside of the cream building, she engulfs her nose onto the coat, a wet gasp slipping out of her lips.

The door of the small black Honda opens, then closes as Camila slips her body inside. She doesn’t turn it on yet but rather takes off the wool coat and spends her time nosing at it from the outside to the inside. Her stomach runs hot, scalding even and when she runs her hand down her chest, her head falls backward. She grabs her chest, palms roughly pressing onto the brown bud under her dress. The coat is tight on her face, muffling her soft gasping whimpers.

Fingers, hands, pine, wool, and jasmine. She repeats Yohan’s name like a mantra and only pauses scared that if she calls his name too loud, he might appear at her window catching her in such a promiscuous position. She stops at the thought, letting Yohan’s coat fall on her lap. Camila sniffles softly and drives away from the museum. She doesn’t stop when Yohan’s reflection is in the rearview mirror, instead, she drives faster. She shudders, the scent of Yohan still circling her nostrils, injecting themselves into her brain.

She arrives home, parking the note but not feeling Marie inside the house. She rushes inside the house, soaring up the stairs until she reaches her door. When Camila is inside, she lays the coat on the bed as if displaying it for a picture. She sinks on her knees and prays. Not for forgiveness or the nature of the monstrosity of her being. But for a touch or pinch of pain to be inflicted on her by Yohan. Camila slept that night with the coat neatly displayed next to her. Undisturbed by her movement, the coat laid all night, with a scent of sweat, wood, and lust.