“Vin…” The only thing that moves are his eyeballs in their sockets as he brings me into his eyeline. “Did you…research poses?”
Now the only thing that moves is the rush of color to his cheeks. The timer dings and he shrugs, shaking out his hands and feet in preparation for the fifteen-minute pose.
I switch to a clean sheet of paper, leaving all the chopped-up Vins in the past. I don’t know why I can’t keep any of them within the framework of the paper today.
This is the long pose, so I expect him to go for something lo-fi. But instead he hits one knee. And then I expect him to lean his elbow on the other knee, at least. But he doesn’t. His torso remains upright and straight. He puts one hand on his thigh, and the other hand he extends, palm up.
“Vin.” I’ve got my hands on my hips.
“Hm.”
“Your muscles are going to be screaming by the end of these fifteen minutes.”
“Hm.”
He’s got his stubborn face on, so I walk to the couch and grab a throw pillow. “At least put this under your knee.”
He catches it, places it, and then resituates into the same position.
It’s a complicated one. The legs are making the same right angles but extended from the pelvis in different ways. His shoulders look level at first, but the extended arm turns out to be lifting one side up. His back toes are turned under, lengthening the bottom of his foot and jutting his heel backwards. One hand disappears against his thigh but the other hand is unforgivingly stark against the negative space. There are hollows under his collarbones, the hips talk to the shoulders, the shoulders frame the neck, the neck cradles the head, the head houses his face, which has a dark and plaintive expression. He’s…remembering something. I’m sure of it.
What are you thinking about?I need to know.
But I can’t know.
So instead I draw.
I imagine.
I create an idea that exists somewhere halfway between Vin and me.
My brain is calm and productive, I’m churning through this pose, this leads to that, leads to oh, nope, draw that again, lower, sharper, there, good. There’s the network of the knee that has his scars from his past ACL surgery that I can’t actually see from here but I know they’re there. There’s the stepladder of hip, spine, shoulder, where he’s piggybacked me so many times. There’s the dip between his shoulders where my chin sits when he’s carrying me.
His hand lowers an inch in the air and then lifts back up. His muscles are starting to strain with the work of it, but his facial expression doesn’t change.
This pose, I realize, isn’t an idea. This pose has a story. It’s the classic will-you-marry-me pose, sure, but that has nohistory with me and Vin. So what is this story? In his mind, is there something in his extended hand? Is he offering something? Or is he holding his hand out expectantly? Waiting for something he’s owed?
The time is ticking down. I get lost in the whorls of his ear, the hairline, the connection of nose to brow, the shadows where his eyelid lovingly curves around his eye.
No, it’s not will-you-marry-me. So what is it?
Maybe it’s the strain of holding the pose, but I think his hand might be actually extended farther than when he started. He’s definitely not handing something over in this story, no…he’s reaching for someone. I’m sure of it. In his mind, his fingertips are centimeters from someone else’s.
I’m on to toes, toes, and more toes, who ever needs this many toes, and then back to the rise and fall of that hidden hand against his thigh. I know it’s a hand, you know it’s a hand, so how do I make a few simple lines look like a hand?
Twenty seconds left now, and I feel his eyes on me. At the top of my gaze, I feel his chin rise. A question, for me. I finish the skateboard of a shin, correct the railroad of his sternum, and then let my eyes take in the entirety of the pose, one last time.
Just five seconds left now.
And I see it. The whole structure of the pose, all its illustrative details, the way he melted into it, like he was partially resisting at first, but can’t fight it anymore. His eyes on mine. His hand out for me. He’s waiting. He’s patient. No. It’s notwill you marry me.No. It’s simply:
Will you.
“Wow, you’re kind of a nightmare today,” Raff says cheerfully as he tears into the enchiladas I brought over. It’s an early dinner for the two of us because I’ve got to head out to art class in a minute.
“Rude!” I start to say, and then reconsider. “Fair!” I amend.
I worked at Harvest this morning and it was a special treat because the computer system was down, so I did all of the volunteer juggling by hand. There will be approximately nineteen mistakes, I’m sure, and I don’t even want to consider what that means for the rescue food. When I got home, I slapped the shit out of two pans of enchiladas and then decided that I simply could not sit around and wait for Vin to get home. I took one of the pans and absconded to Raff’s.
