Anatomy of Inspiration

1

The small gallery was noisy and crowded. People jostled between the white walls, examining the paintings, chatting, laughing. Near the entrance stood a plastic table with bottles of cheap wine and disposable cups—guests poured for themselves, leaving wet rings from the glasses on the table.

The artist, Alisa, stood in a corner, nervously fiddling with the edge of her white silk blouse. She wore simple black trousers and sandals—nothing extravagant. She didn't like drawing attention to herself, though tonight she was the main character of the evening. Her light hair, gathered in a messy ponytail, had become slightly disheveled over the course of the evening.

"Why on earth did I agree to this exhibition?" she thought, watching people walk past her paintings, sometimes stopping, sometimes just casting an indifferent glance. Her works were frank—female bodies, curves, shadows—but there was no vulgarity in them, only something elusively unsettling.

The gallery door swung open, and a group of three people entered the hall. At the front was a woman whose appearance immediately stood out from the rest.

"Damn, it's Viktoria Levina," flashed through Alisa's mind.

Viktoria was a well-known art critic—or rather, well-known for her sharpness and love of scandals. Today she looked as if she deliberately wanted to shock the public: tight leggings in black and white stripes, looking exactly like zebra skin, a short jacket revealing a bit of her waist, and high-heeled shoes that made Alisa involuntarily wonder if it was difficult for her to walk.

— Oh, look, it's our young hope, — Viktoria glanced at Alisa and smirked.

Her voice sounded hoarse, as if she had just taken a drag from a cigarette. In her hand, she held a plastic cup of red wine—filled to the brim.

— Your works… are cute, — she said, moving closer.

Alisa felt goosebumps run down her spine.

— Thank you, — she mumbled, not knowing how to react.

Viktoria took a sip of wine, then ran her finger along the rim of the cup.

— But something's missing. Experience, perhaps.

Alisa frowned.

— What kind of experience?

Viktoria laughed.

— You paint bodies, but it's as if you've never truly touched them.

Alisa blushed. Viktoria noticed and smirked even wider.

— Don't be offended, dear. Just a fact.

She finished the wine, crumpled the cup in her hand, and threw it into the nearest trash can.

— Maybe someday I'll help you.

And, without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked away, leaving Alisa standing in confusion.

2

Alisa watched as Viktoria slowly circled the hall, stopping at each of her works. The art critic studied the paintings with a certain theatricality—tilting her head, stepping back, crossing her arms over her chest. Her black-and-white leggings shimmered under the spotlight, and her heels clicked loudly on the concrete floor.

Alisa took a sip of lukewarm wine from a plastic cup. It was sour, with the unpleasant aftertaste of cheap alcohol. "I should have brought at least decent wine," she thought with annoyance.

— So, — a hoarse voice sounded nearby. Viktoria had suddenly appeared so close that Alisa caught the scent of her perfume—something heavy, with notes of tobacco. — Tell me, what did you want to say with this?

She pointed a long fingernail at one of the paintings—a semi-abstract depiction of two intertwined female figures.

Alisa felt a lump rise in her throat.

— It's… about closeness. But not physical, more like…

— Spiritual? — Viktoria snorted. — Boring.

She shifted her gaze to Alisa, slowly looking her up and down.

— Have you ever tried what you depict?

Alisa felt warmth spread across her cheeks.

— I… don't understand what you mean.

Viktoria laughed—low, slightly hoarse.

— Sweetie, don't play the innocent. You paint passion, but you do it as if you peeked through a keyhole, not experienced it yourself.

She took a step closer. Alisa involuntarily stepped back, her back hitting the wall.

— Scared? — Viktoria raised an eyebrow.

— No, just…

— Just never truly let yourself go, — the art critic finished for her.

Alisa shrugged in confusion.

— Why do you think that…

— What? — Viktoria smirked. — Too harsh? Sorry, but real art doesn't tolerate half-truths.

She turned and took a few steps toward the next painting, then looked back.

— But you're an interesting… artist.

Her gaze was so frank that Alisa understood—this wasn't just a compliment.

3.

The gallery was gradually emptying. The last guests, sipping the remains of wine from crumpled cups, reluctantly moved toward the exit. Alisa stood by her most explicit work—a nude female figure painted with broad, nervous strokes. She shifted nervously from foot to foot, feeling her sweaty palms stick to the plastic cup.

Viktoria appeared suddenly, as if materializing from the semi-darkness of the hall. Her zebra leggings now seemed even more provocative against the faded evening lighting.

She took a sip from a bottle of mineral water she held in her manicured fingers. The French manicure with a thin black outline looked expensive.

Alisa felt goosebumps run down her spine.

— Yes, sort of… People liked it, — she mumbled, avoiding direct eye contact.

Viktoria snorted:

— People like a lot of stupid things.

She ran her finger along the painting's frame, leaving a barely noticeable trace on the dusty glass.

— By the way, I have a couple of rare books on painting technique… and not only… Rare graphic collections.

Viktoria leaned in so close that Alisa saw the fine wrinkles around her eyes and traces of mascara on her lower lashes.

— Come to my studio tomorrow. Let's say… around seven?

At that moment, the gallery owner emerged from the back room, carrying a stack of empty boxes. Viktoria instantly pulled back, adopting a businesslike demeanor.

— I'll send you the address, — she said in a different, more official tone, taking a business card from her purse. — I'm sure my collection will… inspire you. Give me your mobile number.

Alisa took the business card with trembling fingers. The paper was thick, with embossing, feeling like leather to the touch.

— Thank you, I'll… think about it.

Viktoria laughed sharply:

— Oh, sweetie, you've already decided. You just don't know it yet.

She turned toward the exit, her heels echoing loudly on the concrete floor. At the door, she looked back:

— Don't forget—seven. And bring a sketchbook.

Her lips stretched into a smile, revealing slightly uneven but impeccably white teeth.

— You'll need to take notes.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Alisa standing with the business card in her hands and a strange, thrilling sensation. A phone rang somewhere, a coffee machine hissed, but it all seemed distant and unimportant. She flipped the business card over—on the back was written: "Don't keep me waiting. V."

4.

Alisa stood before the massive door of Viktoria's apartment-studio, clutching a sketchbook in her hands. She had triple-checked the address, though she knew she wasn't mistaken—the building was old, with high ceilings and stucco, and the black-and-white business card with sharply outlined letters "V" lay in her pocket as if burning her skin.

She finally pressed the doorbell.

— Finally, — she said, looking Alisa over with an appraising gaze.

The art critic was dressed in leather shorts and a black mesh tank top—sleeveless, revealing her stomach and opaque on the chest. Her hair fell freely over her shoulders, slightly wavy at the ends, as if she had just stepped out of the shower. She wore no shoes, only bare feet with dark burgundy nail polish.

— Come in, — Viktoria stepped aside, letting Alisa inside.

The apartment turned out exactly as Alisa had imagined—spacious, with tall windows covered in translucent curtains, through which the muted light of street lamps streamed. The walls indeed had many paintings, but not classical ones—rather provocative: sketches of nude bodies, abstractions where forms were discernible but not details. The air carried the scent of herbs and something else, possibly smoking blends.

— Sit, — Viktoria gestured toward a low sofa piled with decorative pillows. She herself headed to a sideboard where several bottles stood. — Will you have a drink?

— I… don't know, — Alisa hesitantly sat on the edge of the sofa, placing the sketchbook beside her.

— Of course you will, — Viktoria smirked, taking out two glasses. — You're trembling like an aspen leaf. Wine will relax you.

— To art, — Viktoria clinked glasses with her and took a large sip, not taking her eyes off her.

Alisa followed her example. The wine turned out to be tannic, with a deep fruity aftertaste, and it truly warmed her from within.

— So, where's your rare collection? — she asked, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

Viktoria smiled like a cat that had just cornered a mouse.

— Patience, — she settled on the sofa next to her, so close that Alisa felt the warmth of her body. — First, tell me why you paint exactly this.

— What "this"?

— Bodies. Touches. But without… real fire.

Alisa lowered her gaze.

— I just… feel it.

— Feel it? — Viktoria leaned closer, and now Alisa saw golden flecks in her brown eyes. — Or only imagine it?

Her fingers slid over the cover of Alisa's sketchbook, barely touching.

— Have you ever truly allowed yourself?

Alisa felt blood rush to her cheeks.

— I haven't…

— Don't pretend, — Viktoria interrupted her, her voice quieter but only more dangerous for it. — I see your works. You want this. But you're afraid.

She took Alisa's glass and set it on the table, then slowly ran a finger over her wrist.

— Maybe it's time to stop being afraid?

Alisa froze. She should have said something, pulled away, but instead, she felt her breathing quicken.

Viktoria smiled, pleased with the reaction.

— Want to see my collection?

And before Alisa could answer, she took her by the hand and pulled her along.

5.

— Here it is, my real collection, — Viktoria whispered, pulling Alisa inside.

The room turned out to be spacious but completely unlike the rest of the apartment. The walls were upholstered in dark burgundy velvet, absorbing sound. Instead of paintings—several large photographs in thin black frames: female bodies captured in moments of passion, despair, ecstasy. Not pornography, but art—harsh, frank, compelling to look.

Alisa felt a chill run down her spine. She mechanically reached for her blouse, adjusting the collar.

— Like it? — Viktoria gestured around the room. — These are works by my… special acquaintances. Those who aren't afraid of the real thing.

She approached Alisa closely, and now that spicy scent—a mix of expensive perfume and something animalistic—enveloped her completely.

— Take off your blouse.

Alisa froze.

— What?

— You heard me. — Viktoria didn't raise her voice, but steel notes appeared in it. — If you want to learn to paint passion, first feel it on yourself.

Her fingers slid over the buttons of the girl's blouse, barely touching. The cold metal of her rings briefly touched the skin, making her shudder.

— I… — Alisa tried to step back, but her back hit the wall.

— Scared? — Viktoria raised an eyebrow. — An artist who paints nudes but is ashamed of her own body? What a paradox.

She unbuttoned the first button. Then the second. Alisa didn't resist, mesmerized, watching as the silk fabric parted, revealing her breasts without a bra. The cool air of the room touched her chest, and her nipples immediately hardened.

— That's better, — Viktoria whispered, running her palm from collarbone to waist. Her touch was simultaneously gentle and commanding. — Now you can pose.

She stepped away to an old-fashioned armchair by the wall and settled into it like a queen on a throne. She draped one leg over the armrest, fully displaying the provocative beauty of her leather shorts.

— Show me what your modesty hides, — she said, studying the girl intently. — I want to see that very Alisa who paints such… hot paintings.

Alisa felt heat spread throughout her body. Her hands reached for the blouse on their own, dropping it to the floor. The room was warm, but she trembled—not from cold, but from the awareness that Viktoria was studying every inch of her.

— Okay, — she whispered, not recognizing her own voice. — What next?

Viktoria smiled, licking her lips.

— And now, dear, show me what you're truly capable of.

6.

The room froze in drawn-out seconds of anticipation. Alisa stood before Viktoria, feeling every cell of her skin break out in goosebumps under that appraising gaze. The velvet air of the room seemed dense, filled with the scent of the art critic's expensive perfume.

Viktoria slowly rose from the armchair, her shorts rustling with the movement.

She reached out a hand, and Alisa froze when cold fingers with black manicure touched her collarbone. Viktoria's nails slid down, leaving barely noticeable pink streaks on the pale skin.

— Breathe, – Viktoria whispered, and Alisa realized she had indeed been holding her breath. Her chest rose sharply, revealing her rapid heartbeat.

Viktoria smiled a predatory smile. Her free hand suddenly gripped Alisa's light hair, pulling her head back. The pain was sharp and unexpected.

—