in my Peter, ’my Peter’, only he wasn’t, he wasn’t even real and he had disappeared. I felt myself tearing up. He’d come back tonight, he would, at least that is what I hoped.
It was a couple of hours later that I sat down on my bed staring at my painting. My hands were covered in different colours from me having used my fingers as well as small brushes. I sat with my palms up trying not to get even more paint on my pyjamas. I hadn’t bothered changing into the clothes that I normally wore when doing my art projects, which was an old grey T-shirt teamed with a very old pair of dungarees.
I was breathing slow. If I squinted my eyes I could almost pretend he was in the room with me. I smiled a little, letting my imagination run wild, remembering the dream when we’d been intimate, the feel of his every touch on me. I felt myself tingle.
There was a knock on my door and Lisa stepped in before I had a chance to say anything. She was in a tight pair of dark denim jeans and a black top, she was sucking on a lollipop.
“Gosh, I thought you were asleep all this time but now I see you’ve been busy. Alex, that looks amazing,” she said pointing at Peter on the canvas before continuing; “You might not want Dave to see that, bet he’d get jealous as hell ha!”
I turned to her and gave a half smile. Dave would not be seeing this painting, I wasn’t even sure he’d see any of my paintings. I had to figure out my messed up brain first before knowing what to do about him.
“So,” I said changing the subject as quickly as I could. “Tell me all about your night with Chris. I didn’t get a chance to hear it yesterday. Did he behave? Did you
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