“Fair enough.” She chuckles, clearly amused at my mini outburst and I feel my hands sweating again.
“Favourite food?” I question, changing the subject as I begin filling in the features of her face on my canvas.
“Pasta.” Comes her simple answer and as if she can sense my curiosity, she adds, “It's simple and cheap, what’s not to like?”
I stifle that random bout of pity that prods at my chest. Get a hold of yourself! She told you she liked pasta because it’s cheap not that she begged on the streets for food.God!
“What's your favourite show?” she questions me randomly. I almost fall out of my chair when I see that she's asking seriously, like she's interested in my answer.
Oh my God! What is that fuzzy feeling in my stomach? Am I getting sick? I hope not.
“Doctor Who,” I answer shyly. It seems like I'm more of a nerd than she is.
“Wait, really?” she questions, half shocked and half excited. “I love Doctor Who.”
Maybe she does have some redeemable qualities.
“Really? who's your favourite doctor?” I ask, my eyes flickering back and forth from Adaline to the canvas.
“Ten, obviously,” she answers.
Stop it. Stop saying things that are making me smile and feel connected to you in some way.
“The only right answer,” I respond, smudging the side of her outlined body with my thumb.
“I can't believe you're such a nerd,” she says, amused.
“It's not nerdy to like Doctor Who,” I retort defensively.
“Yes, it is. That show is built for nerds.”
“Maybe I'm a little nerdy then.”
“Just a little?” She teases with a half smirk and I feel my legs go out. Thank God for this chair.
“When do you get your results for this?” she asks me.
“A few months, it’s worth my whole grade.”
“You really love art, don’t you?” Comes her random comment.
“Obviously.” I shrug, calming the swell in my chest when I see her dimples surfacing.
“Who’s your favourite artist?” She sounds genuinely curious and my heart gives out for a second. I really am dramatic, aren’t I?
“Artemisia Gentileschi.”
“I have no idea who that is.”
I chuckle lowly, my eyes focused on the drawing. “She was a 17th century artist. my mother showed me one of her paintings when I was younger, to show me how strong women could be.” I draw the curvature of the smile she’s currently wearing. “That strength could be shown in different ways, like painting.”
“What painting did she show you?” she asks softly.
“Judith slaying Holofernes.”
She pulls out her phone as soon as the words leave my mouth—I can only assume to google the painting. Her eyes gape in wonder and I smile to myself.
“Well, it definitely shows how strong women can be.” Amusement dances in her eyes and I giggle in response.
