And Cliff chose to stay.
The Mr Potato-Head was beginning to take shape. Watching Cliff dipped a color and stroke by stroke transferred it to the canvas was kinda therapeutic. The repetitive moves themselves were supposed to be boring. However it was enjoyable to watch the concentration on his face, how his eyes darted here and there, how his fingers hold the brush tenderly and how his arm flexed creating strokes on the canvas. Perhaps, it is the pure satisfaction watching a piece of white canvas transformed into something.
"It's a perfect Mr Potato-Head..." I observed. The nose, eyes , eyebrows, ears, moustache were all situated where they are supposed to be. "What happened to Picasso?"
Cliff picked black with the tip of his paintbrush and began to paint the hat of Mr Potato-Head, conveniently avoiding the question. The hat was drawn away from the head, as if the top of the skull was opened. Okay...so this still has to be somewhat abstract.
At least I think I understand that this Mr Potato-Head is like a container and the hat is a lid. You can put things inside or take things out.
Cliff puts down the paintbrush. A sure indication that he was done, and I can come near. I wrapped my arms around his waist. I used to complaint that his pectorals are bigger than my boobs, his 6 packs are too hard for my head to rest on, and instead of happily enjoying food together, we have to opt for tasteless salads for so many dates. Not anymore. Still in a great form, he is less obsessed with his body now. Probably I am the one who is more obsessed with it.