Yeah. Thirty seconds earlier, you’d’ve seen something you probably wouldn’t be able to unsee.
“I—” I glanced at the drawing pad still balanced on her knees. “About that…”
Her eyes went to mine. Fixed on mine for a moment, then slowly slid down. Over my bare torso, which was probably still a little swollen from my futile efforts to alleviate the tension. Down further, to my shorts.
Which, I realized, were still slightly tented from my not quite fully subsided…issue.
She set it aside. “About what?”
“The, um. The drawing.” I wanted to adjust, but didn’t dare draw any more attention to it. “Of you.”
Her eyes went back up to mine. “It’s amazing.”
I blinked. “I…” I swallowed, shuffled. “You…what?”
She touched the paper, delicately tracing a fingertip over the lines. “It’s an incredible drawing.”
I was not expecting that. “I…”
“What, Ink? Did you think I’d be mad you drew a nude of me?”
“I didn’t set out to.” I wasn’t sure why I said that. The words just sort of tumbled out. “I was…I don’t know. Out of sorts. I don’t fuckin’ know. I just started drawing, and that was what came out.”
Her eyes flitted from the drawing, to my shorts, to the bathroom. To my eyes. “You…is this how you see me, Ink?”
I moved closer. Struggled for words. “Couple different ways to take that question, Cass.”
She stared up at me. Patted the couch beside her. “I don’t bite, Ink. I’m not mad at you for drawing a nude of me.”
Hesitantly, I settled on the couch next to her. “Glad you’re not upset with me.”
She remained sitting with her elbows on her knees, chin in her hand, head twisted to look at me over her shoulder—her hair was down, loose, staticky, tangled. She was wearing fire-engine red yoga pants, skin tight, and a tank top knotted up high just under her breasts, the knot at her diaphragm, leaving her belly bare, exposing shredded abs.
“Why would I be upset about that, Ink? It’s a hell of a flattering drawing.”
I shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Don’t you wimp out on me now, Ink. Why would I be upset?”
I sighed. “That I was…thinking about you like that. We’re friends. I value your friendship. And I guess I was worried you’d be…I dunno. Grossed out by me…um. Thinking about you like that.”
She didn’t answer immediately. Just stared at me, chewing on the inside of her cheek, pensive and thoughtful. “Well, to be fair, one could argue that, as an artist, you have a bit of leeway or license or whatever to pursue your inspiration, and if I’m your inspiration, then it’s art, and not…what could be considered lewd or inappropriate. Further, this drawing—” she tapped the pad still resting on her knees, “is not, in any sense, to me or objectively, lewd. It’s just not. It’s a classic nude pose, and a beautiful work of art in any objective sense.”
“It’s a quick sketch. Barely any detail to it.”
She nodded. “I know. But still, I think that enhances it, in a way. It’s…raw.”
I smiled, a tight, curious tilt of one side of my mouth. “Thank you.”
She looked down at the drawing yet again. “But, if I consider it from an angle of it being more than just art, or less than merely art…I don’t know. It’s very personal. Trying to look at personally? You’ve given me a sensuality, a look in my eyes that’s…intimate. What’s funny—funny interesting, not funny ha-ha—is that despite it being a nude, you’ve rendered my eyes with more detail than my body.”
“I’ve seen your eyes,” I said. “Had to guess and use my imagination for the rest.”
She eyed me. “Your imagination, hmmm?”
I swallowed hard. We were in uncomfortable territory for me. “Yeah.”
“Meaning, imagine me naked.”
I exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”
“And this is how you imagined me? Like this?”
I nodded. “I mean, it’s how my pencil interpreted what was going on in my head.”
Her quicksilver hazel eyes pierced mine. Drilled hot and fierce and intimate into me. “What was going on in your head, Ink?”
I shrugged. “A lot.”
She glanced at the drawing. “Give me the story behind this moment,” she said, tracing the lines on the paper.
“Cassie, come on.”
“I’m curious. This feels…specific. Intimate. Sensual.” She looked at me. “And I’m curious.”
“What is it you want to hear, Cass?”
“The story.” Her voice was pitched low, a murmur, smooth and melodic.
“The story of me drawing it, or the story within the sketch? The…context of the moment story.”
“The context of the moment.”
“Cass…”
“Why’re you scared, Ink?”
If you knew, Cass…if only you knew. If only I was capable of talking about that. But I’m not.
I forced myself to speak, to push past the emotions and stand in my truth. I closed my eyes and let the story pour out—a fiction, an imagining. “There’s a spot, north of here, way up in the bush, where it’s totally wild. About twenty miles from the nearest road or trail. Only way to get there is hiking, off-trail, and to know exactly where you’re going. It’s a favorite spot of mine. I have a little cabin out there. There’s a river, and I like to fly fish on it. Sit and draw. Just breathe. But if you hike upstream from my cabin a few miles, there’s a little waterfall. Nothing spectacular. Just this spot where there’s a hill and a quick drop, maybe ten or twenty feet at the most. But it’s a beautiful spot, that waterfall. Like something out of a painting. Trees around it, a little pool of swirling water. The fall roaring all the time. Birds like to flutter around, singing. If you sit somewhere real quiet and still, you might see a deer coming to take a drink, if you’re lucky. It’s a hidden place, tucked in against a fold in the hills, surrounded by thick forest. Trees muffle the sound if you’re more than a few feet away, and after the falls, the stream is pretty quiet and slow and gentle. So you just wouldn’t know the waterfall is there unless you know where to look.”
I paused. I knew she was wondering what this had to do with my sketch of her.
“The way I saw it, the way I’d finish that drawing, is you’re in the pool, near the waterfall. You’re standing there, the water is shallow near where the fall hits the pool, so it barely comes up to mid-thigh. Gets deeper before the river continues on, but right near the fall, it’d only be about thigh-deep for you. You’d just be standing there, looking at me. The spray would be slowly making your skin wet, making your hair damp.”
I couldn’t help it. I snatched the pad from her, flipped to a new page, and started over. Sketched her, just an outline at first, no details, just the lines and curves of her body, her hand in her hair and one across her privates, a hint of eye detail just because her eyes mesmerized and hypnotized me, and I could just draw them a million times and never capture all the thoughts and emotions and virulent, passionate, fiery personality in her gaze. I got lost in it, in drawing her. Forgot she was there, almost. Just drew. The waterfall, trees around, big tall pines and spruce and fir. The pool, swirling and eddying. Her, in the water up to mid-thigh. A muddied hint of her reflection. The perspective was that I, the viewer, was a couple of feet away from her, watching her enter the water.