But not so much, of course, that she and Mark hadn't been able to conceive a second time.Mark had always been the faithful sort. He'd never cheated on anyone. Even when he was single and could afford to get high (before the government of National Unity became so ridiculously heavy-handed in enforcing the laws on drug possession), he'd never been keen on casual sex. He would never make love with a mate's girlfriend or wife. That just wouldn't be right. How would he like it if the same thing happened to him?When their long working day was over, Mark and Molly made their separate ways to the tube stations through the rain-soaked streets of London. (Who said that Climate Change wouldn't bring even more rain to already soggy England?) As a devoted couple, they set their mobile phones to broadcast their whereabouts so that the other would know whether their partner was in the office or on the tube. This was a facility that had mostly gone out of fashion after it had been so spectacularly. Forty inches wide and thirty tall, it was easily the largest canvas I’d ever used to paint in this style. Squeezing Prussian blue directly onto it had sent a chill down my spine when I began. Each dollop of paint on my palette knife made the breath catch in my throat as I imagined the sheer scope of disaster that could befall with one misplaced stroke.His head was thrown back. He was in death throes, the expression on his face a cross between pain and pleasure. I worked my way up the canvas, working progressively from foreground to background rather than the typical background forward. A third figure emerged as I moved up. She was pulled out of their bodies, a blur of motion between them as if she had been a part of them. Her back arched with her breasts thrust upward, the expression on her face pure joy as she experiences her first breath. A rising spirit. A burst of sunlight through the upper clouds that highlights the slight mound at her sex, then tapers to legs that have not yet.
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