He liked to paint at night, and would likely request her presence at the studio after he'd settled his spouse at home.
While he was busy replicating his glances of her on the canvas, she would watch him.
He knew, but he could never even begin to guess the true depth of her worship.
She could never tell him.
She could never tell him.
All the best art is impersonal, and who was she to spoil his skill?
She liked that what he felt never came close to what he could create.
And that because of this, it was better that he more incorporated her than loved her. She did suspect he harbored some sort of animal affection, but the feelings were unoriginal and did not matter as much. Anyone can fall in love. (And they always fall out)
They'd fallen in love (or hadn't) in a place that didn't exist, and she knew it.
She didn't think she could seduce him.
This scared her.
They would both expect it to be less like sex, and more like art, and neither were up for the vulnerability of disappointment (Although most men are up for anything.)
Plus, he had a wife.
She was seeing someone else, too.
The other man (he was hardly the "other man") didn't know about the modeling; he thought she was a songwriter. (She was a songwriter, and they did write songs together, but they weren't her songs.)
She knew she was important to the artist because he never drew her exactly as she was.
He was widely considered by the artistic community as a fine photorealist, down to the last feathered eyelash.
For her, he was an Impressionist.
(And anyway, he'd never kept another model around so long.)
This meant that his pictures were not of her, but about her.
And she took it that since they were about her, they were for her.
But all the best art is selfish, and who was she to change that?
When she saw his last painting of her, it was like looking in a mirror.
This painting was for him.
The artist has broken her heart.
And he knew it.
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