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- Herausgeber: Olympia Press
- Kategorie: Erotik
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
They Were Two Women Burning With Desire For The Touch Of Other Women!
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Soft and Warm
Terry Fisher
This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.
Chapter One
She came in just as I was putting the blush on the sides and top of the apple in the still life, and I was resentful of the distraction and more-brusque than I actually meant to be. “Please have a seat—I'll be with you in a moment.”
There was a general impression of a young, dark-headed woman in a tweed suit, and her murmured reply didn't really penetrate as I glanced at her and looked back at the canvas, touching the streaks of white. It came in just right, blending with the suggestion of the priming showing through the transparent crimson of the apple. The whole effect was just right, and along with the warm, comfortable glow of satisfaction I always feel when completing a good one, I felt a rush of relief. I'd promised the woman in the furniture store to have the still life by Friday, and for a while it had seemed as though I'd been over-optimistic. Six starts had produced five blotched, half-finished canvasses thrown into the store room in the back, but the reshuffling of the composition on the sixth one had done the trick. Or perhaps it had been a reshuffling in attitude; it was hard to say. But something had happened, and everything had come together on the sixth one. And it was a relief, because I could use the money.
It all came down to dollars in the final analysis. But there were some things I wouldn't do, and one was trudge on through to the end with a canvas when I had a gnawing conviction that the masses were out of balance. Even though it was going to a furniture store and would probably be hung grotesquely in some living room with dimestore lithographs to keep it company or in some foyer to fill space by a hideous reproduction of an Early American planter or umbrella stand, it wouldn't be hacked out and have my name on it.
The name. I pulled out a number four Filbert from the end of the group between my fingers under the palette and picked up some burnt sienna, then drew the letters with a few quick strokes. It was done and done well. And the rent would be paid. Dollars again. The necessary evil. That was why I couldn't simply—shut myself off and paint while the rest of the world went by. The rent had to be paid, the bill at the grocery store had to be taken care of, and my muse had to be bent to conform to the marketplace. So the front of my studio was a display area, and. I had to make myself available to those who saw the sign and came in off the street.
The thought made me remember the woman; she'd been waiting over fifteen minutes. I half expected her to be gone when I turned and looked—many of them were—but she was standing with her back to me and looking at some of the oils and sketches I'd hung along the front wall. She looked nice from the back; beautiful, in fact. Her tweed suit was obviously tailored, because it fit just right over her shoulders, slender arms, and tiny waist. The skirt hugged her hips and thighs, tucking neatly in below her buttocks, and it ended just an inch above her knees. She had nice legs, full and well curved without being too muscular. Alligator shoes and handbag, and her short, dark hair in a neat style. Beautiful.
I gathered up the brushes and palettes and walked toward the end of the workbench near the short divider I had built all the way across the room to keep customers out of my work area. “I'm very sorry to have kept you waiting.”
She turned, smiling. “Oh, that's perfectly all right—I didn't mind. You know, I don't know the first thing about painting, but I like your work very much.”
The direct force of the smile was a little hard to take. She had a lovely face with delicately rounded cheeks, a small dimpled chin, a cute nose, and massive warm brown eyes. The fully, perfectly formed lips parted slightly as she smiled, showing a hint of her ivory teeth and pink tongue. With the way I felt, looking at her was an onslaught and I felt a faint flush rising to my cheeks. I turned away, dropping the brushes and palettes and reaching for the liquid soap as I nodded. “Thank you very much.”
The instant of silence was just a fraction too long. I glanced at her again as I began working the soap into the brushes; her expression was thoughtful, almost interrogative, then it immediately changed back to the smile. “What style of painting is it when everything looks the way it's supposed to—you know, people look like people, trees look like trees—”
I felt like giggling nervously. I cleared my throat and glanced at her again. “Representational.”
“Yes, I thought I'd heard... that's what you do, isn't it? It's very nice....”
It was beginning to sound lame and I was beginning to feel like an ass. I got a grip on myself, concentrating on the feel of the brushes between my fingers and looked at her, smiling. “Do you see something you like, then, or did you have something else in mind?”
She looked at the oils again. “Well, actually, I was thinking about... they told me you did the portrait of Cliff Rosemont down at the Arboretum—is that right?”
The most difficult portrait I'd ever done, and I was—justifiably, I think—proud of it. Cliff Rosemont, the multimillionaire who'd had the Arboretum built by the Civic Center and donated it to the city, was a homosexual, and one of the most trying and at the same time rewarding experiences I'd had was to paint him. He'd been very understanding and had somehow found time in the hectic pace of his business interests to sit for me for just over one hundred hours. And it had been a nice commission. “Yes. Do you know Mr. Rosemont?”
“Well, we've met a couple of times, and I must say that I've never seen anything which ... which... well, captured the... spirit of a person quite as much as anything as that pain-ting....”
A big man, with bold, firm features. A magnate, holding the lives of thousands and the fortunes of millions in his hands, making decisions which spread across the country in ripples like the waves in a pond when a stone is cast. An alert, intelligent man with an incisive manner. And a homosexual. I had labored hard on that canvas. And I had been successful. To those who didn't know him, it was a representation of the man who'd donated the Arboretum. To those who knew him, it was Cliff Rosemont. I finished working the soap into the brushes and began rinsing them in the bucket. “Thank you.”
“Oh, by the way, I'm Wanda Christopher....”
“And I'm Camille Evereaux, if you didn't notice it on the sign. Did you have a portrait in mind, then?”
I looked at her and smiled as I said it, and she looked away again, glancing over the oils on the wall. There seemed to be a slight flush on her smooth cheeks. I froze, looking at her, then looked back down at the brushes, clamping a firm control over the surge of hope which began flaming to life within me. Wishful thinking was a deadly trap, and the gloomy depression following blasted hope and anticipation was much worse than no hope at all.
“That's French, isn't it?”
But she was a long time coming to the point, which looked uncharacteristic of her; she looked to be one of the chic, sophisticated ones of the business world who counted every second and carefully weighed the time given to each appointment weeks in advance. I blotted the train of thought out of my mind before it could start feeding the hope and kept my eyes away from her as I moved along the bench to the sink with the brushes in a bundle in my hands. “Yes, my father was from France.”
“Oh... you were born here?”
“Yes, the accent is... well, I lived with my aunt for several years, and most of them were spent in Europe.”
“Oh, that must have been nice for you. You studied in Europe, then?”
“Yes, and here. And with my aunt... mostly with my aunt....”
“Your aunt is an artist then?”
That hit a sore spot, and my face probably showed it. I turned off the water, shook the brushes and spread them on a towel, and went back to the pallets, picking up one of them and scraping at it with a pallet knife. “Was. She's dead.”
“I'm sorry, Camille—I really didn't mean to pry. I don't know what on earth got into me to suddenly start asking you about yourself... please accept my apologies....”
I shrugged and looked up at her, smiling. “I don't mind, Ms. Christopher—there's no big secret or anything.”
This time she didn't look away. And hope thundered to glorious life within me, sweeping my feeble control to one side and making my heart race as the blood-rushed to my cheeks. She flushed also, a hesitant, embarrassed smile playing around her lips and dimples appearing in her cheeks as her breathtakingly beautiful face turned rosy. The warm, brown eyes danced with a soft light which my burgeoning hope told me was desire and promise as she tilted her head to one side in a cute, appealing gesture. “I'll tell you all about myself then. I'm Wanda Christopher, I'm twenty-four, I work for Acme Advertising, I'm unmarried, live by myself, and I came to see you about doing a portrait of my grandmother.”
The knife was about to make a hole in the pallet. I put it to one side, smeared some soap on it, and began scraping the other one, looking down at it and laughing. “I said no apologies were necessary, Ms. Christopher—”
“Please call me Wanda.”
“All right, Wanda. No apologies were necessary, and that wasn't either.”
She was controlling the flush in her face and she looked more self-possessed and assured. “Oh, I wanted you to know about me,” she said lightly. “What do you think about doing a portrait of my grandmother?”
“How old is she?”
“Ummm... about seventy, I guess. Why?”
“Well, there're a couple of things involved.” I smeared soap on the other pallet and the knife, then moved to the sink to wash them. “To start with, it's physically demanding to sit for a portrait. I have to have something like fifty hours or so, and it's usually broken up into two-hour stretches. And it's hard to sit still for two hours—try it sometime. The next thing is, I'll have to meet her and talk with her for a while to see how we get along with each other. If there's a personality conflict, then I can't paint her.”
She turned her head to one side again in the sweet, appealing gesture and looked at me thoughtfully. “Say...I didn't think of that, but I guess that it's... hey, how did you get along with Cliff Rosemont? Or am I being nosy?”
It had been an experience. He was an alert, perceptive man, and it had taken him about five minutes to figure me out. Then there had been an hour or two of cautious hedging, tentative questions, feeling each other out. We had come to an unspoken agreement to treat each other like people, and it had been beautiful. I nodded. “We got along well.”
“At least you didn't have to worry about his making passes, right?”
I shrugged, putting the pallets and knife to one side to dry and rinsing my hands under the tap. “I don't have too much trouble with that, Wanda.”
She made a disparaging sound with her lips. “Come on, Camille. You're absolutely devastating, and you know it. I'll bet you could slide down the sidewalk on the drool that runs out of men's mouths when you pass them.”
I laughed, then smiled at her, drying my hands. “Well, hardly, but I appreciate the compliment, Wanda. And you're very attractive, too.”
She shrugged it aside, smiling at me. She had herself under complete control now, and the look in her eyes seemed analytical, almost hopeful. I dried my hands and untied the smock and shrugged out of it. Her eyes moved over me as I tossed the smock on the workbench, and I was glad I'd put on a dress, even though it was only a simple print and somewhat the worse for wear from many washings. Wearing a dress was something I'd formed into more or less of a habit, though; blue jeans and a sweatshirt were nice and comfortable for working, but they didn't do much for my public relations when it came to handling customers. Perhaps not a big compromise, but a compromise nevertheless. Dollars again.
“What were you working on there?”
“A still life—would you like to see it?”
“Please....”
I pulled the small gate section of the divider open and she smiled her thanks as she walked through it. Her perfume was a faint, alluring cloud which seemed to hang around her, and her presence seemed to radiate warmth. The flush rose to my cheeks again, but she didn't notice it because she was walking toward the easel. My eyes involuntarily moved over her hips and thighs, then down her legs. Her hips moved from side to side with a graceful, unaffected motion, and the muscles in her calves and thighs moved smoothly. My cheeks began burning. I fought for control as I followed her.
“Oh, this is different....”
“It's alia prima. Wet on wet. Normally a loose painting of major elements is done, then an under-painting coat is put on and let dry, and then the final painting is done. In wet on wet, each coat is put on over the other without a drying period.”
“God, how do you keep it from getting all mixed together?”
“Well, that's one of the problems, of course. The hardest part is to have the completed painting in one's mind before the first brush stroke. It has to be done fairly rapidly, too, so it can all be finished before it starts to set up.”
“It's absolutely divine, Camille.”
“The wet on wet is a good technique for certain motifs. It gives bold lines and simple designs, and... well, I just hope whoever buys it will have enough judgment to put it with the right kind of furniture and in the right setting. In the right place wet on wet is just the thing, but in the wrong place it's ghastly. It's for a furniture store and it's an assigned commission, so at least I'll have something to say about where it's hung in the store....”
She smiled and nodded, looking at me, then looked back at the canvas on the easel. We were about the same height, but she seemed somewhat taller than I am because of her heels. She pursed her lips and looked down at the floor. “Well, about the portrait ... it was going to be an anniversary gift for them— their fiftieth—and I thought...well, I hadn't even considered how long she'd have to sit for a portrait. It just didn't occur to me, and she's not the strongest... she isn't feeble or anything, but she is getting close to seventy.” She sighed and shrugged. “I don't suppose that part of it could be done with photographs...?”
I shook my head firmly, softening it with a smile.
“Well, I didn't think so....” she murmured, her voice dying away as she turned and looked at the paintings on the other side of the room again. “But now that I think about it, one of these might be even better—”
I laughed and shook my head, cutting her off. “Wanda, you don't have to buy something to get back outside.”
“Oh, I know that, dear,” she chuckled, putting her hand on my arm.
Her hand was smooth, cool, and soft. And it was like a firebrand on my arm. I jumped involuntarily, and she turned crimson as she dropped her hand. It wasn't the first time in my life that I wished I were made so I could kick my own bottom, but I'd never wished it more fervently. My composure completely deserted me, alternating waves of cold and heat seemed to rush over me, and my arm still tingled where she'd touched me. It was impossible to tell if her reaction came from within her or if it was simply in response to my reaction, but she had an iron control. The blush faded from her cheeks and she opened her purse and dug in it, obviously to let me get some of my self-possession back, as she asked me if I minded if she smoked. I managed to stutter a negative, and she took out a cigarette and lit it with a small gold lighter without—thank God—looking at me and offering me one. Then she began walking toward the paintings again, taking puffs on her cigarette and talking as though nothing had happened.
“No, I really mean it, Camille. I'd been thinking in terms of a portrait because a friend mentioned it to me and I thought it was something they might like—Granddad, particularly, because he's absolutely devoted to her—but it needn't necessarily be that. And I also started thinking of my place when I was looking over the paintings—I have this godawful thing I got from a dime-store over my fireplace....”
That took my mind away from myself somewhat. “God....”
She smiled wryly and nodded as she pushed the gate open and held it for me. “Yes, that's about what I think every time I go into my living room and look at it. Any suggestions?”
I cleared my throat. “Well, what kind of furniture do you have?”
“Early American.”
There was a landscape of a barn on a hill with a creek and bridge in the foreground and a hint of a house on the other side of the hill. It was strongly coloristic, with the barn completely dominating the entire composition, and the lines were softened as far as I ever got into romanticism. A caustic opinion might label it posed and showy, decoration, but I liked it. The scene meant something to me, and I found a sudden pleasure in the idea that Wanda might buy it and put it in her place. At least a part of me would be there with her. I pointed to it. “That would go well with Early American.” Then, out of honesty, I softened it. “Depending on your color scheme, of course. That's rather colorful, and it wouldn't go with just anything....”
She turned, smiling. “Now, isn't that something, Camille! That's the very one I was looking at....”
I couldn't look into her eyes, and I looked away, smiling and nodding. She walked closer to the painting, looking at it, and I looked at her. There hadn't been anyone since Beth had left. And I couldn't bring myself to look in cafes and bars. Besides being damned dangerous, love had meant too much to me in the past to make it a cheap, physical, mechanical thing now. There first had to be attraction and interest, then desire. It was all there with Wanda, but it might not be reciprocated. There had been hints; the expression on her face, the soft tone of her voice, and the color in her cheeks. But it might have simply been embarrassment because she perceived my reaction to her. Or worse yet, she might have perceived my reaction and hers might be pity.
“May I ask how much this one is, Camille?”
“Oh... a hundred dollars.”
“Oh, come on,” she chuckled. “That little? I simply knew it must be absolutely hundreds and hundreds, because I know how much artists' work is worth—” I smiled ruefully. “At one time, perhaps. Cut rate painting factories have almost taken over.”
“Yes, but you don't get this kind of work from an assembly line,” she said, looking back at the picture. “As I said, I don't know anything about painting, but even I can tell the difference—” She looked at a seascape and nodded toward it. “That would do for my Grandmother and Grandfather—it would be simply divine in their den. But the color on this one....” She tapped her toe on the floor and looked up at it, chewing her bottom lip, then she turned and looked at me. “What are you doing right now, Camille?”
“Pardon me?”
“I mean, are you going to paint some more or something...?”
I shrugged and shook my head. “No, I was just, going to clean up the place a little and think about dinner... why?”
“Well, you must undoubtedly have an expert eye for color. I thought if you weren't really busy now I could get you to come over to my place and see if the color would harmonize.”
Her smile was pleasant, business-like smile, nothing more. And my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I looked at the picture numbly, my mind racing as I asked myself what she meant. Then I got my answer; nothing. She wanted to know if the picture would look well in her living room. There was nothing else in her expression. She was one of the calm, cool, beautiful women I occasionally noticed in offices and walking along the sidewalks. She would marry someone from her office, stop her pills a couple of times and have the obligatory child or two, and have a large house in the suburbs, two cars, piles, and suspicions about her husband's new secretary.
But I needed the money. Disappointment was a leaden weight on my shoulders and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. But the rent would come due. And I needed groceries. The disappointment would fade into grey melancholy, and I would lie sleepless in my bed. Perhaps I would masturbate to bring a shallow relief, and perhaps I would think of her while I did it. Then I would sleep and I would wake again, and the rent would be due and food would have to be bought. The memory of her visit to my studio would turn up as a flowing, erotic line in some curved object in a painting, or perhaps a street scene would have a woman's face done in meticulous detail and it would be hers.
I nodded, licking my lips dryly. “Yes, all right....”
“Good,” she smiled, then she held up her cigarette and glanced around interrogatively. I pointed toward the ashtray at the end of the battered couch I'd bought from the second-hand office furniture store, and she nodded and walked toward it briskly. “Well, I'm sure we don't have to take the painting, do we? You can remember it well enough, I'm sure....”
I would never forget it. It had been a golden autumn afternoon. Her name had been Deirdre, and her head had rested on my lap as I made the first sketches. But that had been a long time ago. I shook my head. “No, we don't need to take it along. Just let me get the key, and I'll be ready to go....”
Chapter Two
The car was a new Lincoln. The tailored suit, expensive shoes and bag, and chic, polished look had been a hint, and the car was proof; she was one of the accomplished, successful ones. She chatted smoothly and easily, but I was suddenly conscious of my appearance. I wasn't wearing hose, and I still had my paint-splattered work shoes on.
“Perhaps I should have changed or something... I didn't think....”
“Don't be silly, Camille,” she chuckled, leaning over and touching my thigh with an affectionate pat. “You look like a doll—I told you that.”
She was going through an intersection, watching the traffic, so she didn't see what the friendly caress did to me. I looked at the window at my side, controlling myself.
“... haven't met three women in my life who could go without makeup and get away with it. And I still don't know how you do it, but you look perfect. Of course, with a complexion and coloring like yours, it would be a shame to cover it with cosmetics... didn't you ever get started on it, or what?”
I cleared my throat and shrugged. “Well, my aunt didn't wear any, so I suppose that was it—I just didn't get started.”
“Did your aunt rear you...?” She clicked her tongue and shook her head. “There I go getting nosy again.”
“Oh no, it's all right... she... well, I lived with her from when I was fifteen until she...died.”
“I see.”
Silence settled for a moment. It felt strained to me, but that was undoubtedly because I felt somewhat ill at ease. Wanda still radiated the composed, self-assured calm which seemed to be so much a part of her. And she kept the conversation going with a natural, easy talent. “The painting you've just finished—you say it's going to a furniture store? Do you sell many that way?”
“Well, not a lot. To tell you the truth, I started canvassing a little. I won't sell on the sidewalk, but I regard it as a legitimate enterprise to work with businesses. It's the first time I've done it, though, and I was about to give up until I happened to stop in this one store. There was a lady there—I guess she's the owner or something—and she told me she'd take one...
“Oh? Is she a friend of yours, then?”
There was a tiny inflection which made it just that fraction more than a casual question. And what I'd said didn't call for that question. I'd plainly told her that I'd met the woman only once, and then for only a brief time. Or had I? “No, as a matter of fact. I've talked with her only once, and then for a short time. She seemed to be very busy, but she seemed to want to help....”
“I see.”
There seemed to be a note of satisfaction in that. I looked at her thoughtfully, puzzled again. Her eyes met mine, the serene smile still on her lovely face, and she looked back at the windshield. It was puzzling; the question, reply, and comment seemed to lead nowhere, but I had a feeling that it had meant something to her.
She pushed the turn signal lever, braking, and turned in at the entrance to the parking lot behind a tall high-rise apartment building. “This is it, Camille. Hey, I hope you won't think I'm a slob if my apartment's a disaster area. Sometimes I really scuttle around, getting out of there in the morning, and I got up late this morning....”
I laughed and shook my head, and she glanced up at me and closed one eye in a conspiratorial wink. My heart leaped, and I looked out the window again.
She parked in the basement, and there were several other people in the elevator as we went up. The presence of the others seemed to dilute my awareness of her, but only slightly; her perfume was a heady cloud which seemed to fill my nostrils and make my head swim, and I held my hands and arms close to my sides so an accidental contact with her couldn't make me jump and make an ass out of me in front of everyone.
It was an expensive place. The carpet in the hallway was thick and luxurious, and the decorator lamps along the walls had cost a lot. It was just a fraction overdone and I didn't like the artificial potted plants because I don't like artificial plants, but my tastes are more spartan than most. It was nice. And it seemed to fit her.
She unlocked the door and waved me in, and I managed a wan smile as I went through the door in front of her. The entrance foyer was nice even if the floor was artificial marble; a sculptured tile in a plain design would have been somewhat better. She closed and locked the door, then walked ahead of me and pointed at the living room, raising her eyebrows. It was perfect. An Early American couch and two chairs, end tables, coffee table, lamps, and a tea trolley in one corner. Just enough and precisely short of being too much. The maple gave a soft, overall glow, and the flower design in the fabric went well with the drapes and the red brick fireplace. But the picture over the fireplace was grotesque.
I looked away from it and nodded as I walked down the step into the living room. “Yes, it would go nicely here, Wanda. The barn is the dominant feature in the painting, and it would pick up the red in the furniture and drapes. If it looked a little too red to you, you could get some green throw pillows to emphasize the green in the furniture and drapes and tone the red down.”
She nodded, smiling. “Yes, now that I look at it again, I know that it's just what I need.... God, let me get that down from there.” She walked across the room and took the picture down, then turned it to the wall and leaned it against the edge of the fireplace. “There, that's taken care of. And the maintenance man told me he does odd jobs, so I'll get him to make a maple frame which will go with... please sit down, Camille. Here, sit on the couch.” She sat down on the couch, patting it, and I smiled and nodded as I walked to it and sat down. “Let's see now,” she murmured, looking down. “I want the one for this room, I pointed out the one I want for my grandfather and grandmother, and perhaps... perhaps a couple more for the office—”
That would take care of the rent and groceries for some time. It didn't take care of the empty gnawing within me, but I was grateful. I smiled and nodded. “Thanks very much, Wanda—I'm very grateful.”
“Thank you, Camille,” she chuckled, getting up from the couch. “Or thank the friend who mentioned you. This has solved a couple of problems for me, and that office needs something... how about a glass of wine?”
More than anything else, I wanted to go home. The plush apartment was a sharp contrast with my threadbare, shabby place, but my place was warm and comfortable with the things I-knew around me. And her presence was becoming almost overwhelming; I was getting all tied up in knots inside, and I wouldn't be able to trust myself much longer. “Well....”
“Oh, come on—just a glass of wine. To celebrate, right? I've found some things I need, and you've made a sale. So we can celebrate together, right?”
“All right, then.”
She smiled and nodded and went into the next room, unbuttoning her suit coat and shrugging out of it. I looked down at my hands. There was paint under my fingernails and a line around each cuticle, as there usually was, and the splotches of paint on my shoes. The print dress looked even more faded and worn against the bright fabric of the couch, and I noticed that I'd got a spot of paint on the skirt. I sighed and scratched at it, wishing I were home.
She came back in with two glasses of wine. Her blouse had ruffles of lace at the cuffs and at the throat, and it was a sheer, silky material. I could see the line of her bra at the sides, and her breasts thrust out in two large, curved mounds in the front of it. The blood started rising to my cheeks again, and I kept my eyes off her breasts and concentrated on taking the glass without making it tremble in my hands. Her fingers brushed mine as I took it, and my hands trembled.
“This wine will probably taste awful to you, having lived in Europe,” she murmured, sitting on the couch again and sipping her wine.
“I like the wine of the country,” I replied and tasted it. It wasn't too bad; light but with a full bouquet, and sharp without being tart, and I nodded. “This is very good.”
“Thank you. What do you think is the best wine you've ever tasted?”
We had gone through Luxembourg and across the German border at Trier to the weinfest on the Mosel one autumn. The weather had been superb, the air crisp and spicy and crystal-clear, with fleecy clouds floating in the azure between the towering mountains along the Mosel. There had been a feeling of timelessness in the tiny cities with narrow cobblestone streets, and the sturdy, smiling, red-faced Germans and their buxom wives had been friendly and pleasant. Perhaps it had been the wine of Gabrielle's lips which had made my head giddy and which had implanted the memory firmly in my mind, but it still lingered. “The wines from Bernkastle-Kues on the Mosel, I suppose.”
She smiled warmly. “That made you think of something, didn't it? I could tell by your face that—”
Her voice faded and she chuckled, patting my arm. “No, I'm not going to pry again—Camille, your arms are very pretty and feminine, but they're absolutely like iron. That comes from painting, doesn't it?”
I took another sip of the wine and put it on the coffee table, nodding. “And from exercising. It's very important to hav [...]
