I wander away toward the pencils section. They sell them in singles over there and the whole thing is a little more my speed. Lauro wanders along with me.
“Here for supplies?” I ask him.
“I saw you come in.”
I pick up a chalk pencil and draw a swirly on the test pad next to it.
He picks up a lead pencil and quickly draws a nude woman lying on a couch. He plucks the blue chalk pencil out of my hand and gives her a recognizable heart-shaped diamond necklace.
I raise an eyebrow. “Draw me like one of your French girls?”
“You know,” he says, handing the pencil back to me. “I’ve been figure drawing since I was fifteen years old and Istillthink of that scene every time I sit down to draw somebody.”
“Where do they let you draw naked people at fifteen?”
“France,” he says matter-of-factly. “My parents sent me to a French drawing atelier. Boarding school, sort of. I mostly just learned how to go down on girls. In my spare time I occasionally attended class and learned how to draw.”
“I do not believe that for one second.”
“Which part?” He’s grinning at me, pulling one pencil out of my hand and replacing it with another brand. It’s a much smoother, richer ride and I resolve to give him my art supplies shopping list before I buy every time.
“The part where you only occasionally attended class. I’m willing to bet you actually worked your ass off.”
Now his brows are furrowed. “What gives you that impression?”
“Obviously you’re talented, but nobody getsthatgood without decades of practice.” I nod toward his drawing of Kate.
He’s frowning now. He adds a mustache to his drawing. “Maybe I tried hard,” he concedes. “To get so good that I wouldn’t have to try hard ever again.”
“Yeah. Trying is terrible. Smart to get it out of the way. How’s that working out for you?”
He gives me a pout and moves us down the aisle. “You need to throw your pencil sharpener in the trash. Every time I see you use it I want to tear my hair out.”
“What’s wrong with my pencil sharpener?” I demand.
“The same thing that’s wrong with every pencil sharpener. Uniformity! A pencil should give you a unique line, every time. Sharpen with a blade instead.” He selects and then hands me an X-Acto knife. I hand it back.
“I’m not going to chop my finger off.”
“Just try.” He takes one of the pencils I’ve (he’s) chosen and gives a few quick shaves to show me how.
I follow directions and, dammit, I see what he means. It’s given me an angled Ichabod Crane sort of pencil tip and when I drag it along the paper, I’m gifted a line with both clarity and personality. “Oh, fine,” I grouch.
We’ve moved along to the paper aisle. “So,” I say, rubbing a fingertip along all the different textures and weights of paper. “Raff says you’re in monogamous love and you want her to shove wedding cake in your face and make babies and tie her shoes for her and—”
“Raff’s an enormous blabbermouth,” Lauro grouses. He’s got hands on his hips and the scowl to end all scowls.
“You admit it!” I crow. I feel like a third-grader. But this is fun.
“What? There’s something wrong with wanting that?” He’s defiant and prickly.
“Of course not. I just didn’t see it coming. I really couldn’t tell you had feelings for Em.”
“Well.” He kicks his shoe at the parquet floor. “For a while that was kind of the point. I thought ifshe thoughtI was over her, then she might…”
“Over her, you say. So you dated?”
He has the good grace to wince a little. “We…dated?”
