Well, I finished twenty-seven late last night, sent it out to my editors. I got some very positive remarks, too!
Here's a piece of it, preceded by a tiny bit of backstory.
John Sampson has gone to Delilah's loft in the city to wait for him; get even for having been blindsided a week earlier. The door is unlocked. He enters, looks at the fabulous art and the industrial decor. Hates it.
Delilah has brought Amy up after the concert in the park to show her the real side of him. The confident side. The artistic side. They arrive, enter, and Amy is knocked out by what she sees.
Amy regarded him momentarily. As he spoke his hand seemed to tighten over hers for a fraction of a second. He was looking down, either at the sleek beauty of the famous artist's creation, or else at the arguably more beautiful form of her wrist and lower forearm, the ends of her fingers peeking out from beneath his. An anonymity of sorts existed at that moment for him. He was explaining art, but he was also explaining a passion inside him that ran to a greater depth. Her proximity, and the feel of her skin beneath his hand.
Sampson sat silently, caught in his boat on the sea in a dead calm. He thought nothing, only listened, expecting something to come of the silence behind him. The sound of clothing being undone quickly or a first moan. But, no. Delilah was far too stupid to move decisively he knew.
"And this one?" she asked. "It's much different. How it bends and spirals upward like long shafts of golden wheat on a windy day. Is it a Brancusi, too?"
"No, no. But it's just as lovely as the Brancusi, I think...perhaps not as lovely as the way you described its soul, though." He spoke calmly, directly, without embarrassment, now, having crossed a bridge into a kingdom where every leper is a knight; every woman of servitude a lady.
"A local artist did it. A woman. Angela Motieri. She hasn't done her best yet, in my opinion, but this piece, 'Ode', is excellent. I picked it up...