“What is it?” he asks. “You can say it.”
“The lying-down poses are the hardest to draw. For me. But I know they’re the easiest to do, so—”
“No problem. I’ll just sit, then.”
He grabs the towel and lays it out over the coffee table, assembling himself into pretty much the same pose he was in when I entered the room. Legs spread, fingers laced, oh, boy, right in front of the crotch, which means I’m going to have to stare,there,very hard in order to decipher fingers and thumbs from carrot and plums.
Shockingly, I can feel myself starting to blush. Which is ridiculous. Ridiculous because, not to be crude, but me and Vin…me and Vin areacquainted,okay?
I’ve had literal conversations with that particular part of his body. Much to his delight and laughter.
But right now…it’s all feeling very new and very different and context is everything, okay?
He’s got his head cocked to one side, studying me, and then he glances down at his hands. “Oh. Is the fingers-crossedthing too complicated?” He smooths his hands over his thighs. “Better?”
“Yes. Great.” I clear my throat. “Comfortable?”
“Yup.”
I set the timer and get to work.
The thing about having a one-on-one session with a model, whether or not you’re married to them, is that when you’re in a class, there are a ton of people and the model doesn’t really look at any of you. But Vin is facing me square on and he’s watching me draw. I can feel his eyes as tangibly as I’m sure he’s feeling mine.
These are not sexy times. Not exactly. But they are extremely intimate.
“You’re so focused,” he says.
And I jump. A big graphite mark mars the paper, but luckily not over the top of what I was drawing. His ear, by the way.
“Sorry,” he says, and coughs a little before resuming his position exactly as it was.
“No, no. It’s okay. You can talk if you want.”
“Telling someone they’re focused is kind of an asshole thing to do because it breaks their focus. Or so I’ve just learned. I’ll shut up now.”
I’m smiling against my will, and so is he and it’s all so shadowed and awkward and comfortable all at once. We’re here, in my living room. And he’s here, my husband. But he’s naked and I’m drawing and we’ve never done this exact thing before and that angle, there, right where his nose casts a shadow against his cheekbone and my pencil goes and I justnailit and his eyebrows, I know those eyebrows, or at least I thought I did because I have to draw them twice to get them right.
I’m constructing Vin from nothing. Well, not nothing. But I’m taking the Vin I see and running him through the underground tunnel network that leads from my eyes to my brain tomy hand. And yes, okay, my heart. Of course, this figure on my page isn’t actually Vin. This is an idea of Vin. And perhaps extremely importantly,myidea of Vin. I think of Em’s drawings. If I’m using that same theory,in short, I wanted to understand myself,then there is as much of me on this page as there is Vin.
I wondered on the dance floor how I would draw music, and the first idea was “dancing hips.” Well, now that I’ve got Vin pinned between my pencil and paper, what is heactuallyshowing me how to draw?
Oh, jeez, I glance at the clock and eight minutes have passed and he’s just a floating face and hair, not even a jawline yet. Which I kind of botch, and then connect awkwardly to his neck. I bail on the top half and make an attempt at the knees up to the hip, give him ribs and a strong shoulder. I try for like four seconds on each hand and leave them mostly blank before dropping my eyes to his crotch. To ignore or elaborate? Oh, fine. I quickly draw what I see. A body at rest, familiar and foreign all at once. Sometimes I look at a penis and I think,Really?Really,thatwas the best possible design? I digress.
I get something passable down and move along to his feet. Again, for some reason, I’m getting feet today. Even two feet that are flat on the ground and facing me, which turns them from their normal long, triangular lines into a bunch of squishy U shapes on top of one another, but they’re real life, they’re giving feet, baby, and when I go back and add in the toenails, I blink because they’re not just giving feet, they’re givingVin’sfeet. I’m just flourishing over that pairing of not-quite-even ankle bones when the timer dings.
Vin immediately rises to his feet and stretches.
“I could do a few more two-minute poses,” he offers, one hand holding the opposite ear and stretching his neck. He’sfull frontal now, and everything that looked restful and nestled moments ago, suddenly looks much more present and I glance down at my drawing. I just drew Vin’s feet and they look fantastic. I can see the other poses. Sad, distraught, exasperated, patient. Vin’s eyes on me while mine are on him.
These are feelings. This is connection. This is him doing, yes. But this is him vulnerable, too.
“No!” I flip the paper over on itself before he can see what I drew. “No, that’s okay. I think that’s enough for today.”
“Really?”
His hands are on his hips. I wish he’d put his underwear back on because with the drawing pad closed I don’t know where the heck to look.
“Yeah, that’s good. Thank you.”
