“You don’t need to fuss over me,” I mumbled as I lay on the couch, book in hand. I glanced up from the words on the page.
“You scared me there. I thought you were going to faint.” He sat on the floor by the other end of the couch. He adjusted the pillow under my ankles before he settled again, picking his notebook back up.
“I am not sick.” I laughed, tapping the back of his head with my foot.
“You are the only thing worth fussing over.” He smiled, making delicate pencil strokes in his notebook. It occurred to me that he was not writing or annotating.
“What do you have there?” I put a ribbon between the pages of my book to mark my page as I leaned up.
“Nothing to be concerned about.” He shielded the paper from me, turning his body away.
“Give it here!” I crawled over and plucked it from his hands.
When I saw the sketch, it was a charcoal drawing of a woman reading. I could only assume that it was myself. He’d somehow even captured my markings. I thought this was the first time I’d seen myself candidly. “I thought I would look meaner when no one was watching,” I joked.
“You only look mean when peoplearewatching.” He took the notebook back from me.
“I didn’t know that you were an artist.” I lay on my stomach to watch him sketch over his shoulder.
“I am many things. I’ve had many years to practice the arts in between studies. I get bored easily when auditing classes that I’m already familiar with,” he said. “Information gets repetitive the more time you spend at different colleges.”
“What other mediums have you dabbled in?”
“All of them. I have always been told I am gifted with my hands.” He smiled over his shoulder. “I enjoyed the theater and painting the most though. What else is there to do when you have nothing but time?”
“You say that you are an old soul. You look like you are barely twenty-five.” I tilted my head at him.
“They said something similar when I posed for an illustration class once.” He grinned, turning the page of his notebook and starting a new sketch. An illustration of a cute critter, something like a ferret, came alive on the pad.
“What is that?”
“A sable. We have a lot of them at home in the wild. They make for soft coats.”
“How morbid,” I scolded.
“It is true. Anything that cannot be kept as a pet is usually a pelt.” He filled in the beady eyes of the critter on the page.
“You never talk about your home.” I studied him rather than the drawing this time. “What is it like? Do you have a family?”
“I am from a small village originally,” he said. “Otherwise, there is not much. It is a cold and formidable place.”
“What brought you here?”
“Business. I came for a work opportunity.”
“You are working while studying? An apprenticeship?”
“In a way, yes.”
“We should visit the fine art wing of the museum next time you have a free day. I think you would be inspired.” I laid my head down on my folded arm. He was so rigid when focused, yet his hand was light and relaxed as he sketched.
He flipped the page, turning to sit facing me from his spot on the floor.
“What are you doing?”
“Museums don’t inspire me quite like they used to. I’ve seen every painting they have. It is old to me.”
“There are thousands of artworks in those archives.” I cocked a brow. “You couldn’t have possibly seen them all.”
