“As long as we can get noodles.”
“Is that what you want?” As if I have everonlywanted noodles.
“Yes,” I reply, standing up to pace around the room, antsy to be in such a small, enclosed space withonlyDean.
He practically radiates sex-appeal akin to Marlon Brando—Dean’s dressed in a green flannel and corduroy pants, his hair floppy, glasses propped low on his nose. He holds himself confidently, like he knows what he came here for, and right now, it’s to be the fastest, most efficient caller to the only takeout joint in town.
I glance around the room, looking for anything to distract myself when I absentmindedly pick up the complimentary pen and notepad. I sit on the foot of the bed and begin to sketch Dean.
He places the call for an order for delivery. I’m distracted by how assertive he sounds. I’m always bumbling and nervous on the phone, but Dean places the order quickly and competently. He’s polite and well-spoken.
My hands are a little stiff, and I’m overall a little rusty, but I sketch Dean sitting in the desk chair on the phone. Then, I sketch him standing up. I sketch the curve of his nose and the jut of his glasses. He looks prehistorically simple in my sketches compared to the real life, breathing human being in front of me. He’s detailed and complicated sitting in front of me, with many facets and particulars—none of which I manage to capture.
Dean hangs up the phone, and places it face down on the desk.
“What are you doing over there?” He asks.
“Nothing.” I hide my sketches under my hand.
“You’re doing something.” He stands up, towering over me. I look back up at him with wide eyes. I think I’d do everything to escape his gaze right now. Having his undivided attention right now is too much to bear after I’ve thought too much about kissing him and then some while staring at myself in the mirror. About the way his hands held my face. About the way he presses his lips together after.
I slink to the floor, sliding down the duvet, landing straight on my ass. I crumple the drawing and kick it across the floor while Dean watches me act like a child. He sits down next to me, our shoulders touching. “Were you drawing?”
“Trying to,” I answer truthfully, dropping the charade. The paper rests like a stalled tumbleweed a few feet away. “But it was really bad and I don’t want you to see it.”
He stretches his legs out, and taps the paper with his gargantuan foot, drawing it closer to him. I lean back against the foot of the bed. Dean unfurls the paper that I’ve tossed.
“It’s not that bad,” Dean analyzes the drawing, holding it every which way.
“It’s not what I used to be.”
“I like you as you are now.”
“I was talking about my drawing skills.”
The remaining blue light from the start of dusk is reflecting off the snow and streaming in from the window. It makes Dean look mysterious and dark, even though I know he’s anything but. Our eye contact is intense, but we both seem to know what’s inevitably coming.
“You should draw more often,” He tells me, inspecting the fine lines in the crumpled sketch. “Why’d you stop?”
“I wanted to be a children’s book illustrator once,” I say, ignoring his question.
“But not anymore?”
“I still could be. Drawing is just like anything else. It takes practice, but you don’t forget once you learn,” I lean my head back. “But I think I want to try something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Farming. Owning chickens.”
“Chickens, are like, full of diseases,” Dean laughs.
“Maybe not chickens,” I shrug. “Maybe just farming.”
“Is that really what you want to do?” He asks.
“No,” I confide. “I don’t mind being a virtual assistant. It gives me enough money to pay the bills.”
“But?” Dean toes his shoes off, and I start untying mine.
