Pascal Chove is a master of the female anatomy, says Sifu Sabrina

I take a nip of my 1837 TWG tea and my gaze wanders, lighting upon the gilt-framed paintings on the walls before settling on Sifu Sabrina. “Who’s the artist?” I put the china cup back on the saucer with a whisper of a clink, sniff at the tea’s tang swirling about and lean back in my velvet chair.

The dangerous slopes of Sifu Sabrina’s body shift as she turns on the sofa to face me and my nerves feel seismic vibrations. “Pascal Chove.” Her voice is a husky coo.  “A French.” Her curly eyelashes flicker, their innuendoes harpooning straight to my thudding heart.

Sifu Sabrina and I are sitting tucked in her condo’s living room, its quietness swelled like a helium balloon, intermittently punctuated by a jazz piano solo. She has one knee bent and resting on the cushions, and the hems of her hotpants are clasping her upper thighs like lecherous hands.

“He’s good, shows mastery in the folds of cloth, knows how to interpret sensuality. Tell me more about him.”

“Born in 1960 in Paris. Studied at the Duperré School of Applied Arts. Has held exhibitions in America, Belgium, Holland, Japan and Korea.”

A sensitive statement curls into a question. “Price of each painting?”

“From USD1,000 upward, depending on size.” Sifu Sabrina brushes a copper curl away from her forehead with red-tipped fingers. “I bought them online.” 

My gaze drifts to a painting on a creamy side wall. “That’s a disgusting, ugly, old woman.”  A memory of  Medusa twitches in my mind. “Why would Pascal want to paint her?”

“You son-of-a bitch, Ewe!” Sifu Sabrina’s black eyes crackle like BBQ kindling sticks. “That’s my Mum! It was done by a Central Market artist.”

Heat scorches my cheeks and slithers down my neck. “Oops!” My fist flies to my mouth. “I’m sorry, really sorry.” I fight off a nascent grin but loses to my jaw dropping.

Sifu Sabrina’s sharp gaze captures mine for a silent beat across the coffee table, its volcanic marble top knocking light into my eyes.  Then, our joined laughs climb small steps all the way up to high, idiotic cackles, and teeter down.

/end