He says: You are my muse.
She says: What is it that I do to amuse you?
He says: Your beauty is sublime, you have captivated me ever since I first laid eyes on you.
She says: Then have me. I’m yours.
He says: We’ve done that already, the bliss is only temporal. Once I’ve tasted your every crevice, once I’ve climbed your every peak, we will begin to cling, we’ll find our will is weak. I’d rather meet you in dreams, and paint you on canvas. Then you remain perfect, untouched, mine.
She says: But I languish without your touch, my body will not be ripe forever.
He says: Our souls are eternal, we will live again and again. I will meet you in endless forms, as racing cheetahs, and parrots singing sweetly. I will rock you to sleep in my arms as a babe, and make endless love to you in the womb of the sky.
She says: Stop being a poet, and make love to me now, here, on the floor, against the wall, kiss my thighs…
He says: Hold perfectly still, you are ravishing at that angle.
She says: Fine, I will take another lover then!
He says: He will never compare to me.
She says: I know, but I must be satisfied!
He says: My dear, even if you storm out of this studio right now, our hearts are linked, and I hold your image in my mind’s eye. I will take you again and again, and paint you endlessly, disguising you in long, red ringlets, or with slanting Asian eyes. I will paint you as a man, a God of the Greeks, your profile flawless, your chest inspiring awe. Your sinewy beauty will make men and women weak.
She says (with a stamp of the foot): Will you stop all this foolishness, already? I have undressed myself for you, I have shown you in a million covert ways that I want you, but all you do is stand at your easel, and paint, and paint, and paint!
He says: Storm away, my darling. All in good time. All in good time.