“You’d be about to jump in,” I said, muttering half to myself. “About to get your hair wet, and you’re—you’re looking at me. Waiting for me to come in, too. To swim with you. That’s the look in your eyes.”
Silence, a fraught space between words. A world of unspoken things between us.
“When I first asked you if you this is how you see me,” she said, “your response was that there’s more than one way to take that. What did you mean?”
“It’s how I see you—could be positive or negative. I drew you how I see you—beautiful, sensual, and… elegant, and you were wondering if that’s how I see you because you don’t see yourself that way. Or it could be, is this how I see you, as just an object, a body to be objectified. As…as a sexual object.”
“You put that last part, you seeing me sexually, as a negative?”
“Well. Seeing you sexually ain’t the same thing as seeing you as a sexual object.”
She nodded. “I see the difference.” A pause. “So, which was it for you?”
I sighed. “Neither, and both.”
She snorted a laugh. “Gonna have to explain that one.”
“It was a compulsion. I had to draw. There wasn’t any kind of thought-out intention to it. But the thoughts I did have, the reason I had to draw, was because I was having…um. Thoughts. About you.”
“What kind of thoughts?” she whispered.
“Thoughts of wanting to see more of you.” I swallowed hard. “In more than one sense. See more of you, as in I like spending time with you, talking to you. But more of you in a literal sense. I’m not judging, but appreciating, and admitting my own issues when I say that what you were wearing at the laundromat did a number on me. Made my brain go haywire.” I licked my lips. “Turned me on. And I know, I realize very clearly that you weren’t dressing to be provocative. Or to turn anyone on. Just for comfort. I just…I’m attracted to you, big time, so I guess it just doesn’t take much.”
Once again, she chewed on the inside of her cheek, thinking. “Ink, I…” trailing off, she looked into my eyes, a million thoughts obvious and at war in her gaze. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Wherever you want. Say whatever is true.”
“Whatever is true, hmmm?” She bit her lower lip. “What if whatever is true is…risky? Dangerous?”
“Dangerous how?” I asked.
“Dangerous as in it could open a can of worms I’m not sure either of us are quite ready for.”
“I think I already opened that can, Cass. That drawing opened it.”
She nodded. “Yeah.” A weighted pause. “I’m flattered by the drawing. That’s one thing that’s true. I don’t see it as objectifying me. I see it as a tasteful, artistic, and flattering depiction of me.” She looked at me. “It’s also obvious in the way you drew me that you see me…in a way I’m not sure anyone has ever seen me. That you’re attracted to me.”
“You damn well better see yourself that way.”
She laughed. “I have a healthy self-esteem, don’t worry. That’s not it. I’m fit, I’m good-looking, I’m comfortable in my skin and I love who I am. I know I’m a lot to handle. I have a big personality. I can be loud. I can be opinionated. I have a lot of energy, and a lot of thoughts, and no filter. No patience for bullshit. I’m a physical person. I’m touchy. Most people aren’t comfortable with how physical I am, even just with my friends.” She glanced at me, away, then back to me. “I’m intensely sexual. I know what I want, and I know what I like. I don’t hold back in that arena any more than I do any other aspect of my life. And for most people, that’s just too much—I am just always too much. But the way you see me, as evidenced in that drawing…it’s sensual. I’ve never identified as sensual. Sexual, yes. Sensuality is different.”
I felt my gut drop out. “Funny how you said that—that you’re too much for most people.” I worked my jaw, hunting for the words. “That’s me, to a T. But now package too much personality, too many quirks, too much physicality, and put it all in a six-foot-seven, three-hundred-pound frame. And cover that frame with tattoos. And a big beard and long hair. Way, way too much for most people.”
“Ink—”
“You know, the average height for an Inuit male, across the entire tribal subspecies of my people, not just my particular tribe, but all Inuit—is five-four, for a male. Trending slightly higher in recent generations, but that’s still the average. We are not a tall race, as a whole.” I patted my chest with a fist. “Makes me a giant. Even for white people, I’m huge. But for my people? I’m a freak. I don’t have giantism or anything. I’m just a huge person. Some sort of weird freak of genetics or something.”
She nodded. Slid closer to me, so our thighs touched. Looked up at me. “I think you’re perfect.”
I laughed. “That’s subjective, I think.”
“Well yeah. But you know, when I told my sister about you, she was like what? You’re not my type.”
I laughed. “No shit, Cass. I’m not anyone’s type.”
She frowned at me. “Not what I meant.” She leaned closer. “I’ve always gone for the tall, lean, shredded, clean-cut pretty boy type.”
I snorted, and then burst into laughter. “Well that sure as shit is about as opposite of me as you can fuckin’ get.”
“I know.” Her eyes bored into me, silenced my laughter. “Wasn’t expecting it, but somehow, there it is.”
“There what is?”
“Me. Being attracted to you.”
“You are?” I blinked, stunned. “Why?”
“Just…you. Who you are. And it’s not just your personality, like, making up for your looks or some bullshit like that. I am physically attracted to you even though you’re the polar opposite of every guy I’ve ever dated, slept with, or been attracted to. Complete opposite. And maybe that’s part of it. Those guys have mostly all treated me like shit. You treat me like…” She swallowed hard. “Like you really like who I am.”
“Because I do.”
She reached out, withdrew the drawing pad from my hands, the pencil, and set them on the coffee table. She held my hand, my huge paw in both of hers. “Why did you seem so surprised that I like you? That I’m attracted to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit. You’re a good-looking guy, Ink. You just are. I know not everyone likes tattoos and beards and all that, but you’re just a handsome man.” She smiled. “Just like not everyone likes tiny athletic girls with no boobs and no butt.”
“You have boobs and a butt.”
“Well, yes, I have them, but they’re just small.”
“Exactly perfect.”
“Am I your type, Ink?”
I shook my head. “Don’t have a type.”
“You don’t.” She sounded disbelieving. “You’ve had girlfriends, yes?”
I bobbed my head to one side. “Sort of, but yes.”