Mona Lisa's Smile

“Look directly at me,” he said. Only her eyes moved. Yet her eyes, as though with a will of their own, followed his hands. His long, thin fingers, gripping the brush—unless clenched in his teeth—pushed it into paint, mixed, dipped, and lightly dabbed at the canvas. Eager, but unable to see her form take shape just beyond her view, she gave up her mind to supposing sensations she might feel if he suddenly thrust away brush, pushed canvas aside, gripped her with those long fingers, pressed his lips on her arm where it lay in her lap and nibbled slowly up toward her mouth.