“Nude,” he says. “I’ll paint you nude. Otherwise watch for your sketch at the show.”
A few days later on a sunny Saturday afternoon Lucille stares at oversized pillows with mismatched pillowcases laid out on the parquet floor. They’re set up in front of the wall papered with hundreds of sketches of faces from the café and are far from the window which makes her happy. Lucille steps into the bathroom to disrobe.
If she willingly walked into the place…It was his eyes, she would say. Your honor, there was something in his eyes.
“Having second thoughts?” His voice is cool and patient from the other side of the door. Lucille folds her clothes into a neat pile and leaves them on the toilet. There’s no other place, the sink stands alone, there’s no counter. The bathtub is still wet, so he showered, if she rests them there they might fall.
“No. I’m ready.” She faces herself in the mirror. It cuts at her pelvis, the image in the mirror considered art, any lower and it would be porn.
“Use the towel if you want. Or the robe.”
She does as he suggests, covering herself, her skin cold and dotted with goose bumps. Her hard nipples rub against the soft brown terrycloth robe. She turns her head down to the arm and inhales – there’s a faint smell of him in it. It’s pleasant. Manly. Real. She imagines him naked, putting the same robe on, just hours ago. She’s getting aroused. Stop it. Lucille steps across the threshold and wishes for a shot of vodka, a glass of wine, anything to ease her into what seemed like a good idea in the parking lot the other day.
There was no trace of alcohol. No illegal substance in her system.
“Ready?”
She nods.
“Whatever makes you comfortable. You’ll be in the position for a long time so be sure.” Lucille sits on one of the pillows, cross-legged and folds her hands across her chest. She can’t do it. She doesn’t want to be here, naked or fully clothed.
He indulges her unease. He waits, wanders to the kitchen and comes back with glasses of water. He places one at his easel and one on the floor in front of Lucille.
“You can put the towel over you if you wish.”
What’s he gaining, painting me like this? Lucille wonders. He’s uninterested. What could it be?
“It’s good practice,” he says. “It’s not everyday you get a live model.” He smiles, tosses his curly dirty blonde hair out from his eyes. He busies himself by squirting tubes of paints onto his mixing palette. He chooses his brushes, rubbing his fingers through the bristles of them all, drying a few on a small hand towel splattered with paints. He ignores her entirely, hums out a tune she doesn’t recognize. Lucille let’s the robe drop to the ground, wraps one leg over the other and relaxes her hands at her side. The man notices, stops humming and moves his easel into position and begins. Lucille looks over at the bookcase, tries to read the writing on the sleeves of books. She closes her eyes.
Hours pass. She stretches out her legs, drinks the lukewarm water, gets up to relieve herself, twice. She puts the robe on to go to the bathroom, and each time he hums to himself, stretches his arms out behind him or walks to the window and peers into the street. The shadows on the face wallpaper change with the fading sun. Her back begins to ache, her eyelids feel like lead weights. She wonders why he keeps the heat so high.
“Miss?” he asks.
“Um-hum?”
“You’re getting tired. Shall we wrap it up?” He puts his brush in the water jar, dirty from the blended colors, moves the easel away and takes his empty water glass and his jar of brushes to the kitchen.
“Yes, okay.” Lucille pulls the robe around her. “My name’s Laura. In case you want to use it in the title.” Second year of law school, and here she is, throwing herself in the face of danger. It gave her such a rush, and is calmed that nothing, in the end, happens.
“Thank you Laura.” He leans over the big, square industrial stainless steel sink cleaning his brushes. Lucille steps into the bathroom to retrieve her clothes.