“Are you done yet?” he asked.

She looked out from behind the easel.

“Well, don’t you want your present to be perfect?”

“I suppose so. I will just suffer in silence.”

“You act like you’ve been up there for centuries.”

“Maybe I have,” he said stretching his pale form to make the most of his first attempt at nude modeling.

“Hold still.”

“I’m trying. It’s more difficult that it looks.”

“It’s probably because you’ve been sleeping all day. You should stretch more.”

“Going out in the daytime is for regular people?”

“And what does that make us?”

“Artists.”

“Good answer.”

He stood there for a little longer trying his best to keep still.

He liked watching her paint. It reminded him of when they met. She was an art student. He was a business man just a tad too old for her. It never stopped them. It helped that he looked young for his age.

She became a different person when she painted. The calm, cool vixen he normally liked melted away and it showed the fire that burned within her. She painted with her whole body. She was short and the large canvas meant she had to stretch to cover the surface with paint. Her passion evident in every stroke.

It was much a performance as anything he’d seen. Had both of them not been obsessed with privacy he’d recommend that she put on shows, as he was certain people would pay just to watch her paint.

Finally, she stopped and looked back at her work.

“I think it’s done,” she said.

“Can I?”

“Yes you can move.”

He did so in dramatic fashion moving much more than he needed to and stretching as he walked to get his robe.

“Do you want to see it?”

“Of course I do,” he said as he pulled a framed piece of his desk.

“What’s that?”

“You first.”

“Fine,” she said and backed away so he could see the painting.

He studied it for a moment, with his hand tucked under his chin to give his best impression of an art critic.

“Marvelous,” he said, “simply marvelous.”

In truth it was, she captured him perfectly even down to his hair, still jet black after all these years.

“You like it?”

“I love it.”

“Your turn.”

He handed her the poem he’d written earlier that day. It was written with a quill he kept in his desk for special occasions and then framed it.

“Oh this is great.”

“It is?”

“I think it’s your best one yet.”

“You’re not just saying that because you’re the subject?”

“Or am I?”

“Yes.”

She winked, “then I like it even more. Though…”

“What is it?”

“You wrote shades of pink.”

“And?”

“Pink isn’t a shade. It’s a tint.”

He made a big gesture of slapping his forehead, “How could I have missed that?”

“Well I’m the artist.”

“True. I love when you’re pedantic.”

“I know. It’s the only reason I said anything.”

“Maybe I put it there on purpose.”

“Even better.”

“Besides I’m saving your real gift for later.”

“Oh now I’m excited.”

“You should be.”

“Should we get changed?”

“I think so the reservation’s in a couple hours.”

I waited down stairs and my heart nearly started beating again when I saw her come down stairs in her blood red dress.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

We got our usual table at the Italian restaurant near our house. It was the perfect secluded corner. We ordered, both of us asking our server to have the chef to go light on the garlic. I hated that infernal member of the allium family but I could tolerate it in small doses.

We laughed and talked and it was the perfect evening. There was only one way to make it better and we needed to be home for that.

We could hardly wait to get started.

I kissed her and said, “I’m so glad I can share my heart with you.”

“Well her’s is rather larger you should share.”

I laughed as be both looked down at the unconscious woman sprawled out in our crypt.

My wife’s fangs grew as did her blood thirst became apparent. Mine grew too.

It was the perfect date.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” we said in unison.