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One particular afternoon, when he sat at his desk grading other students’ assignments, I could not help but stare. Never had our paths crossed, never had our eyes met. I want you to feel good.”
Cold, I most certainly was not. For the first time, we made eye contact for more than a fraction of a second. Stories traveled through the hallways, stories about Mr. Trying not to gaze at his large biceps, I buried my face in my sketches. Monet had painted me. He started to create the contours of my body. I tried to keep my thoughts with the painting, but that proved sheer impossible. I kissed him. If only it was that easy. If someone like him wanted me to model, who was I to decline that offer? “Would you like me to draw you?”
I was stunned. Some of them looked finished, others were barely half-way done, a few were nothing more than a canvas with some lines on them.