3. Nick #2
I tear my gaze away, steering us back on course. “Right, I need you to find a comfortable position,” I say, deciding to let her take the lead on this one.
She thinks for a moment, then lowers herself onto one side, with her lower leg straight, her top knee bent forward, her head propped up on one elbow. Reclining contrapposto.
“Is this alright?” she asks, looking up at me.
My gaze strays to the dip of her side, the lift of her hip, the long line of her leg.
“Fine,” I say, voice pitching lower. I clear my throat harder than necessary, returning to the class.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes, so take your time with this one.
Start with outlines, then fill in the details and shading. ”
I step away to pace the perimeter of the studio, focusing on the students’ sketchbooks as they work.
For some, this is clearly their first time attempting to draw the human figure, but others are already drawing with skill.
I pause beside a middle-aged woman struggling with the proportions, and she sighs.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
“You’re not doing anything wrong,” I say, glancing at her name tag. “This is a challenging pose, Ruth.” I kneel beside her, examining her sketch. “The proportions in her midsection are a little off.”
Ruth scrunches her nose. I put her in her late fifties, with closely cropped gray curls, warm brown skin, and large bright red earrings.
“How?” she asks, motioning to our model in the center of the room. “What am I missing?”
I force my gaze to Zinnia, reclining on the pedestal, like a queen in her court.
“See the rise of her hip? See how it’s much higher than her waist?
” My gaze follows the line without meaning to.
I wasn’t sure about her when she stepped up to model, but she’s surprised me.
From a purely artistic perspective, she has Rubenesque proportions; wide hips, full bust, narrow waist with a soft stomach.
A Renaissance master’s dream. My gaze moves to her face before I can stop it, noting the peaches and cream complexion, then catching on her full lips.
What shade of pink would best capture those?
“You’re right,” Ruth says beside me, interrupting my straying thoughts. I straighten with a brisk nod.
“Happy to help.”
The timer goes off, and I breathe out. We run through several more poses, with me stopping to help a few people, keeping one eye on the clock.
I tell myself it’s because I’m eager to get home and work on my syllabus, but I know it’s more than that.
It’s something unfamiliar and unsettling I don’t want to examine.
It’s a relief when the class ends. I pack up the easels while people mill around the wine table, and Zinnia appears at my side, fully clothed.
“Thanks for letting me do that,” she says, helping to fold an easel. “I know you weren’t thrilled when I got up there.”
Guilt darts through me. Was I that obvious?
“I was expecting a more experienced model,” I admit. “But June was right. You saved the class.” In more ways than one . Would it have been as lively and relaxed if we’d worked with the original model as planned? I suspect not.
“Well, it was fun.” She places the easel against the back wall, turning to fold the next one. “Harder than it looks, though. I have a newfound respect for statues.” She gives a light, musical laugh, and I try to ignore it as I stack chairs.
I should tell her she doesn’t have to help, but I can’t get the words past my lips.
We pack up side by side as people file from the studio, and I’m alarmed to realize how aware I am of her every move.
The air feels thicker than before. As I set the last chair against the wall, I notice the room has completely cleared out, leaving us alone.
I slide my glasses off to clean them on my shirt, my breathing shallow, pulse erratic in a way that’s not from moving chairs.
“I never got your name,” Zinnia says, piercing the silence, and my gaze flies to hers. She gives me a sheepish smile, motioning to my chest. “You’re the only one not wearing a name tag.”
Shit, she’s right.
“Nicholas,” I mumble.
Her smile widens. She looks like she’s about to say something when June ambles back into the room, beaming.
“What a marvelous class! You’re a natural, Zinnia.” June’s gaze moves to me. “Wasn’t she excellent?”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I give a quick nod, pulling on my jacket to leave.
“How would you feel about being our regular model?” June asks her. “I know you signed up as a student, but—”
“I’d love to,” she says. Then she leans in conspiratorially. “I’m not an artist, if I’m honest. I’d rather be up there.”
June claps her hands together in delight. “Fabulous!” She turns to me. “And what about you, Nicholas? Will we see you back here on Thursday night?”
I hesitate, rubbing the back of my neck. June never mentioned this would be an ongoing commitment. I have other work that needs my attention.
But my gaze swings to Zinnia, her expression warm and expectant.
“Yes.”