The room is… unexpectedly full. There are maybe a dozen people, all arranged in a wide horseshoe around a little stage where a woman is already posing, completely naked anddisturbingly unbothered by it. She’s doing this elegant lean on a stool with one knee bent like a fancy nudist flamingo. A soft overhead spotlight casts tragic shadows over her hip bones. Her expression is serene.
I hate her immediately.
The artist closest to the door shifts and blocks my view just enough to piss me off, but it’s fine. I’m scanning, eyes darting, hunting for the real subject of interest.
There.
Rhys.
Near the middle. Sitting tall at his easel. A man made of restraint and expensive moral fiber. He’s got a big sketch pad clipped to a board, long fingers smudged at the tips from charcoal or pastels or whatever they use to capture the essence of naked strangers. His shirt sleeves are rolled, throat open, jaw clenched as if he’s deeply offended by nipples.
He does not look back.
Not once.
Not even when the door creaks.
Sir. I am literally behind you. Do you not feel the aura of obsession radiating toward your spine like a laser pointer on a cat?
Whatever. I slink to the back corner, choosing a spot where I can see him and the model and not have to sit next to anyone with a ponytail and artistic superiority complex. There’s a spare easel already set up, a giant piece of newsprint clipped in place. Under the stool is a tray with charcoal sticks, vine charcoal, and an eraser that looks like a chewed-up wad of gum. I sit gingerly and pick up a pencil like it’s a weapon I might accidentally use on myself.
The model shifts. Someone hums. Rhys is focused. In full life-or-death sketch-off mode. As if he’s about to sell this portraitfor millions and retire to a vineyard. His gaze doesn’t flicker, not even a twitch.
And listen, I’m mature. I understand the human form. I’ve got one. But watching him study that woman’s naked everything with the concentration of a monk reading smut is making my teeth itch.
She’s pretty. All long limbs and minimal body fat and tasteful nipples. She probably does yoga and volunteers for dog rescues and drinks herbal tea with honey and doesn’t chase her ex across state lines. She’s the worst.
I glare at her while furiously sketching Rhys’s side profile.
Stick figure version.
Labeled. With tiny sad eyebrows.
Then I draw the model as a goose.
Then I draw me holding hands with stick-Rhys while goose-woman cries in the background.
Everyone else is quiet. Focused. Dignified. Meanwhile, I’m in the back like a chaos raccoon doing vengeful doodles and trying not to choke on my own silent rage.
I lean forward dramatically and whisper to my sketchpad, “Get her, girl,” as I draw devil horns on goose-woman’s head.
Still, Rhys never looks back.
Not once.
Just sketches. Sharp. Controlled. Stern.
I bet he’s good at it. I bet his hands know how to coax out shadow and form and all the soft-edged things he won’t give me.
I frown at my page, which now contains a heartsplosion labeled “art is for horny cowards” and a doodle of me drop-kicking the model into the sun.
We’ll see how focused he is when I’m the one on that stage.
I fake a polite little yawn that says, I’m just so artistically fulfilled I need to leave early, then quietly unclip my paper fromthe easel and roll it up. The goose-woman is still posing. Rhys is still sketching. Probably doing justice to the curve of her thigh.
I give his back a lingering stare full of betrayal and mascaraed spite, then slink out of the room with the grace of a cat burglar who stole nothing but vibes.
The hallway’s quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you question if you imagined the entire class. The guy at the front desk is sipping something that smells like decaf moral superiority when I appear.
