5. Nick
NICK
M y heart races as I stride along Fruit Street. Why did I tell Zinnia that? I’ve never told anyone how much I love that painting. Hell, I don’t think I’ve even admitted it to myself .
I try to make sense of our conversation as I climb the front steps to the community arts center.
It was unexpected to find Zinnia sitting in that coffee shop.
I’d intended to take some time before class tonight to look over student papers from last semester for gaps in their learning, places I could dive deeper in class.
So finding Zinnia waving at me across Joe’s was a surprise.
Not an entirely unwelcome one, either.
I shouldn’t have sat beside her. After the way I felt so discombobulated during class on Tuesday, I knew that being near her would make it impossible to focus.
But that didn’t stop me from crossing to the neighboring table. And when she talked about Italy, my self-control wavered. Especially when she spoke about Michelangelo’s David with such perception. Such passion . It stirred something unfamiliar inside me. Something I refuse to acknowledge.
June is setting up when I enter the studio, and I greet her with a tight smile. The truth is, I was considering telling her after class this evening that I can’t run it again. I don’t know what I was thinking, agreeing to sign on long-term.
Seeing Zinnia in that coffee shop reminded me. The way it feels to be in her orbit, overly aware and self-conscious, like my body knows something I don’t. I shouldn’t lean into that sensation, shouldn’t encourage it. Not when it already feels so destabilizing.
But when she asked me what my favorite painting was, the answer was out of my mouth before I could stop it.
And when she asked me why… I couldn’t find the language to explain.
The painting is technically excellent—the composition, the clever use of foreground and background, the brushwork—but if I stop to ask myself why it moves me, I know that’s not it. It’s something I can’t put into words.
I shrug out of my jacket and take an easel from June’s hands, ushering her away as I place the rest around the room.
It was a convenient excuse to leave and set up for class, but knowing I’ll see Zinnia again in a few minutes sends a nervous ripple through my gut.
And this time, she won’t be fully clothed.
As much as I hate to admit it, she’s crossed my mind more than once since Tuesday. The way she reclined on that pedestal, so comfortable in her skin, as if she were Venus of Urbino herself. My brain memorized every curve and dip of her figure, despite trying not to look.
Yesterday, I pored over my old sketchbooks. Remembering the way it felt to put pencil to paper. To study the proportions and angles and shapes of the human body so closely. I imagined what it would be like to draw Zinnia, to capture those hills and valleys, the landscape of her.
Then I put the sketchbooks away.
I convinced myself Zinnia was nothing special. That I’d tell June I couldn’t continue, and I could get back to life as it was before Tuesday night.
But seeing her in the coffee shop, hearing her talk about art like someone who knows how it feels to see it up close, who’s moved by the same statues as me… she’s no longer just the model from class. A body to be drawn. Curves I can’t get out of my head.
She’s intelligent. Interesting. Funny.
And that’s worse. That’s harder to ignore.
June enters the studio with the tray of wine, and as I drag the pedestal into place, I glance at the table.
Despite knowing better, I grab a plastic cup off the tray when June leaves and drink deeply, needing to settle that feeling in my stomach.
The one that’s fizzing with anticipation for Zinnia’s arrival.
This isn’t me. I don’t know this guy, don’t recognize his behavior. I have nothing against women—I find the female body beautiful, in all its forms—but I don’t make a habit of… well, whatever this is. Thinking thoughts I shouldn’t. Feeling things I shouldn’t.
I toss the empty cup into the trash can under the table, taking a deep, calming breath.
Surprisingly, I’m steadier, and as I turn to greet the first students for class, I realize I’m overreacting, making a big deal out of nothing.
I’ve never taught a life-drawing class, that’s all.
It’s challenging. It has nothing to do with Zinnia.
The problem was working without a plan. Letting an inexperienced model choose her own pose. But if I keep a tight grip on the class direction, everything will be fine. I just have to remain in control. I’ll focus on the students’ work and forget the model is even there.
In fact, I tell myself, turning away from the door, I won’t even look at Zinnia.