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“Definitely. You’re absolutely right and I’msorry. Again.” Ishoved my hands in my pockets, grateful for the other opportunity she’dgranted me.
“Good, great.” She twisted her fingers, still nowhere near as comfortable as Iwanted her to be. “Iapologize too, for pushing you.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. You had no idea and if anything, Iappreciate your concern. Let’sput this weekend behind us and draw?” Igestured to the easel, anything but to stare at her one more second without being able to touch her.
“I’mnervous.” She huffed alaugh, scratching the top of her head.
“Don’tbe, it’ll be fine.” My tone turned authoritative like it did in the classroom, stern in amanner that told my students that they were in good hands. “I’ll get the pencils. In the meantime, you can print ablack and white photo of amodel as reference. Preferably one where there’sahigh contrast between shadows and lights.”
“’Kay.”
We went to get what we needed for the impromptu class. When Ireturned from the school’ssupply closet, Icarried avariety of graphite pencils, asharpener, and an eraser with me toward Erin and her blank canvas.
“Why haven’tyou hung the picture?” Iglanced from her flushed face to the photo she held in her hands, reluctant to release it.
“You have to promise not to laugh.” She swayed from side to side.
“Give me some credit, I’ve seen my share of people who modeled for apainting and Ihaven’tlaughed once. Atotal professional.” Imotioned for her to hand it over.
“It’snot justaperson.” Her lips pursed, then she blew out along breath. “It’sme.”
“Nothing wrong with you.” Imade ashow of skimming my eyes over her, from her bare feet to the waves of hair cascading around her, verifying what Ialready knew: Erin was gorgeous.
“Fine.” With atrembling hand, she passed the photo to me. She gripped it until my fingers touched the paper and even then, she didn’tlet go. Ilooked into her eyes, conveying the utmost sincerity. “Erin, Iwon’tlaugh.”
The solemn promise appeased her, and her slim fingers released it to my hold.
Even me, with my many years of experience who prided himself on being aprofessional, felt like my limits were being pushed as Iused every muscle in my face to keep from stirring.
In the photo Erin sat on astool, posing same as she painted, one leg bent on one of its levels and the other hanging loosely, her toes pointing to the floor, her profile to the camera. Her wavy locks were straightened and pulled up in apin, showing her elegant long neck. She looked down with droopy eyelids, seductive and incredibly sad at once.
What stood out, and probably what brought the blush to her cheeks, was what covered her, or the lack thereof. Her delicate fingers flexed around awhite silk sheet, affixing it to the opposite shoulder, leaving her chest and thighs barely covered.
Itensed, my forehead breaking out in acold sweat, afraid that if Imoved, I’dhave shown signs of the physical reaction she stirred in me. The real-life Erin gazed at me from where she stood, doe-eyed, expecting me to laugh.
For the life of me, Icouldn’tgrasp why she thought I’dmock anything about this.
The appropriate reaction, from me and any other human with eyesight, would’ve been an accelerated heart rate, adrop of sweat down the back, an inability to concentrate on anything else. To fight my feral need to pin her to the floor and have her in the studio. But to laugh? No.
“That’sagreat example for our classes.” Icleared my throat, anything to bring her attention to my face instead of my jeans, and went through the motions of attaching the photo to the paper. “The light only falls on the back of your body while the front is obscured. There’salot to learn from both.”
“Lucky Ihad it then. Ihelped afriend for his final project in photography.”
“Lucky,” Imurmured as the vein in my throat pulsed.
Although Erin and Iweren’tin anything close to aromantic relationship, Icouldn’tdeny the shade of envy that infiltrated my vision. An unease of having someone seeing her naked, even if it was for an art project.
Iconvinced my heart to slow down and then started explaining the basics, slowly finding my pace. Itaught, flowing from simple instructions and supplying her with ahandful of techniques and in-between. Somewhere along the way, the tension left my body.
Along with the verbal explanation, Idemonstrated the techniques on paper so she could follow my movements later. Idrew her face, her high cheekbones and delicate jawline, her small nose and lips, her pinned-up hair and an errant lock that fell from it down her face. The beauty of her.
She sat behind me, uncharacteristically quiet and attentive. Ilooked over my shoulder to check on her and was nearly swallowed by the depth of her eyes. She focused her attention solely on me, and little by little Igrew addicted to it, to her.
“These are the basics, essentially. Once you master these, you can let your hand lead the way,” Iconcluded when the drawing reached below her neck.
We were at apublic studio, with Erin who Iprotected mainly from myself and from my increasingly heated needs. Sketching the swell of her breasts or the curve of her back were two counterproductive directions that Ispared for the both of our sakes.
As Ihanded her my pencil, our fingers brushed. In this brief second of feeling her skin, more warmth passed through me than spending awhole day in the sun. Iseparated myself from her with ungraceful moves, then gave her my seat.
