"I don't know if I have a type," he said carefully, the lie transparent in his hesitation, in the way his eyes briefly flicked back to the solitary man at the bar.
"Everyone has preferences," I countered gently. "Aesthetic patterns that attract us. The Church may have taught you to fear your desires, but art demands honesty. Is he your type, Micah?"
For a moment, I thought he might retreat, might fabricate some safe, academic response. Instead, he surprised me with sudden directness.
"No," Micah said quietly, his eyes lifting to meet mine. "He's too... complete. I'm drawn to people with visible fault lines. People containing contradictions." His gaze held mine, something defiant in it now. "People with shadows."
I allowed myself a small, appreciative smile. "That’s an excellent answer. Now you're beginning to see."
We spent the next hour developing Micah's observation skills, teaching him to look beyond surface appearances to the vulnerabilities beneath. I showed him how to identify signs of isolation, of emotional hunger, of past trauma written in the set of shoulders or the pattern of a laugh. With each lesson, I leaned closer across the table. I occasionally allowed our fingers to brush when reaching for our drinks. He was surprised at first, but as the night went on, he became more comfortable with the proximity.
"The woman by the jukebox," I suggested, indicating a slender brunette standing alone, scrolling through song selections. "What do you see?"
Micah studied her. "She's been here a while. Came with friends, but they've either left or she's avoiding them. She keeps checking her phone but trying to look like she isn't. Waiting for someone who isn't coming."
"Very good," I murmured, genuinely impressed by his quick adaptation. "What else?"
"She's... beautiful, but doesn't know it. Or doesn't believe it. Keeps adjusting her clothes, her hair. Checking her reflection in the jukebox glass." He paused, his voice dropping. "She'd be easy to approach. To... convince."
The predatory assessment surprised him; I could see it in the widening of his eyes, the tension in his jaw. The shadow had spoken through him before his conscious mind could censor it.
"Convince of what, Micah?" I asked softly, leaning closer across the table.
"To... go somewhere private," he said, the admission clearly difficult for him. "She's lonely. Looking for a connection. Vulnerable."
"And what would you do with that vulnerability if it were offered to you?" I pressed, watching the conflict play across his features.
"I'd..." he began, then stopped, reaching for his drink with a slightly trembling hand. "This is just an artistic exercise, right?"
"Of course," I agreed smoothly, allowing him this temporary retreat. "Though art and desire often spring from the same well. The greatest creators understood this. Rodin and Camille Claudel. Picasso and his many muses." I paused. "Does the female form interest you at all, Micah? As subject or... otherwise?"
His fingers tightened around his glass, knuckles whitening slightly. "I've drawn women in figure drawing classes."
"That's not what I asked.”
He looked down at his drink. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible above the ambient noise of the bar. “No. Not... like that.” He let the confession hang in the air briefly before looking back at me. “I’ve never told anyone that.”
"It takes courage to speak the truth after so many years of being punished for it,” I said.
"How did you know?"
"You attended a retreat at Covenant House Ministries,” I pointed out.
“How could you possibly—”
“You listed Reverand Thomas Morris as a professional reference on your admissions paperwork,” I explained. “I spoke with him before extending my offer of mentorship to you.”
Micah leaned back in the booth, staring at me. “In my undergrad admissions paperwork,” he clarified, which was true. It had been nearly seven years since he’d applied for his undergraduate degree, and Micah Salt was no longer the boy he’d been at eighteen. Technically, the reverend’s recommendation was completely useless to me. It told me nothing about him as an artist. But it did reveal a lot about him as a person.
“He spoke very highly of you,” I added.
“He told you? I thought… I thought the retreats were…”
“Confidential?” I finished. “Perhaps not. Though revealing that to me was unethical on his part. That speaks more about him than it does you. It certainly didn’t detract from your ability as an artist.” I pushed my glass away. “It’s not widely known that the Covenant House runs a conversion therapy program. That part was a guess.”
“Based on what?” His tone edged toward anger.
"It's evident in your work, Micah. In the way religious iconography appears in states of torment or destruction. In how you hold yourself when certain subjects arise. The body remembers what the mind tries to forget."
