He dragged the sheet off the easel.
“My God,” she gasped.
It was her, nude, with butterflies dancing around her nipples.
“Marry me, Jennie, or I promise I’ll never paint another picture.”
“John, you’re sick. You know I’m marrying Matt.”
“Jennie -- “” But she was gone.
At least he still had her likeness. But he would keep his promise. He wrapped his right hand in turpentine-soaked paint-rags, and struck a match. Screaming, he stumbled into the painting, and set that alight, too. The butterflies flew out, their wings blazing, but spiralled to the floor, as all dreams do.
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