Page 87 of A Taste like Sin

And a lonely one.

When I finally return to my room, I grab a robe and then creep into the hallway, inching toward that

dangerous barrier that divides his half from mine. If one were to describe my assigned rooms, they

might as a mocking array of posh socialite meets repressed exhibitionist—but his…

The hallway extends, opening onto a large, spacious room stocked only with an easel and a stool.

Simplistic at first glance, but the atmosphere feels different in here than at his other studio. Dark

walls and onyx stone flooring lend to a quieter space. Calmer. I imagine him painting something far

different from the average nude muse while in here. A hint of what such subject may be reveals itself

the farther I roam into the suite.

The next room contains a relatively simple bed draped in black sheets. But the walls…

Painted canvas covers nearly every inch of them. So many scenes are depicted that I wander

aimlessly, observing every one.

They transport me. Into amber fields. Ochre skies. A riverbank. A sea of growing crops. Each scene

is frozen in painstaking detail, creating a parallel universe fit to rival that of his greenhouse. Flowers

are a tangible escape.

But in this room, he created one from memory.

Enthralled, I find myself sitting on the end of his mattress, lost in the clashing views. It’s a strange

thing to be inside someone’s mind. To see the world how they do, even if it’s via snippets. Fragments.

Damien Villa may be blind now, but he hoarded his recollection of the sky. The various hues of blue.

The golden kiss of sunlight. How many secrets lurk behind his blindfold?

Hours must pass as I try to ponder that very question. Eventually, I feel tired enough to risk lying

down—but my eyes have barely closed when I hear it. Thunder shattering the silence. Lightning

flashes, illuminating the room and throwing every shadow into stark relief.

I find myself lurching upright and pacing circles until I wind up retreating to the scarlet room, drawn

by a faint, musical melody. My cell phone. It rings again as I fish it from my purse, battling another

monstrous roar of thunder. I reach for it and find a call from an unknown number. Only God knows

who it could be. I shouldn’t answer, given the hell of this past week.

But when lightning strikes, my finger slips.

“Hello?”

“While I have kept your room free of surveillance, I feel it is only fair if I am allowed to monitormy