The Blue Tile Painter – Part 2: The Kiln

The roof of the studio looked over a tumble of orange rooftops and the river glinting far below. Rafael set out a bottle of red and two mismatched glasses. The sky turned peach, then violet.

"I have never had an architect on my roof," he said.

"I have never had a painter hold my attention for six weeks."

"Six weeks?"

"I counted." She smiled, a little shy. "I was going to ask you to dinner on the day the scaffolding came down. But I think I'd like to ask now."

"Yes," said Rafael, immediately. Then he laughed at himself. "Yes. Please."

They talked until the lights came on across the city. When she shivered, he laid his jacket over her shoulders and left his hands there. She turned. He kissed her gently, tasting of wine, with the care of a man who painted petals with a single hair.

"Stay," he said. "If you want. The kiln needs watching tonight anyway."

"I do want."

The little flat behind the studio was warm and full of books. They kissed again in the doorway, then slowly down the narrow hall. Her hands found the buttons of his paint-spotted shirt. His fingers traced her cheek, her neck, her collarbone, so light and certain that she closed her eyes. The blue evening drifted in through the window, and the world narrowed to breath, warmth and quiet laughter.

At dawn they opened the kiln together, wrapped in a blanket, barefoot on the cold floor. The tiles came out glowing, deep and perfect cobalt.

"They are right," Ines whispered.

"They are exactly right," said Rafael, looking at her.

The scaffolding came down in March, on time. The facade shone blue in the spring light, four thousand tiles, and one small corner tile that Rafael had signed with a tiny painted heart.

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