The life drawing class set up with quick efficiency, shoving tables to the side and setting out easels and stools, pads of paper, and boxes of dusty charcoal in a circle around the platform I stood beside. Quiet chatter filled the white-walled classroom, which was dotted with a few structural pillars, a wall of windows, and another of whiteboards. A few doe-eyed young women shared a look with each other as Isaac, the art professor, passed by them on his way to adjust the lights that would illuminate my body.
"All right, class, you know the drill. Gesture drawings. If you would, Hera," he said, nodding at me. Smiling, I took off my robe and got onto the platform, before working through the flow of poses I had planned, holding each for two minutes before moving onto the next. My body nothing more than assembly of shadow, light, and shape. Music filtered softly through the scratch of pencil on paper, the shuffle of pages being turned over.
I watched Isaac while I worked. He walked behind the students, giving gentle suggestions and praise. Many years ago, I took this class, and I could still remember how his solid presence at my back made my body hum a steady note in a chord of fire. As if a professor and his student could ever be together like that. Holding back a snort at the memory of my own naivety, I moved into my next pose, standing with my arms clasped behind my back, one knee bent to the side.
I still appreciated his form, though, even now. He was well over six feet tall, dressed easily in jeans and a white button up, with sandy blonde hair and deep blue eyes. When he spoke, it was only ever with kindness; his voice was low, and absolutely saturated with good humor.
Yes, ten years had passed, but damn if he couldn't still get it. Could I?
As if that's even relevant, I thought to myself. The gold glint of his wedding ring caught the light as he lifted a hand to a student's drawing. I don't even have feelings for him anymore, anyway.
After a ten-minute warm up we moved onto longer poses, which required far more of my concentration. Trying to remain still, in one pose, for ten or fifteen minutes? Pretty damn difficult. My muscles were beginning to pinch when Isaac called for a break.
I pulled on my robe and stretched my arms above my head.
"You doing all right?"
I glanced at him as he approached. "Yeah, but the break is good timing." He smelled woodsy, of pine and charcoal, something warm and inviting. I caught myself leaning towards him and pulled back.
Grinning, he pointed at the bag of cushions I brought with me. "You can pull those out and do some reclining poses next, I think."
"Sounds good, Isaac."
He winked at me before turning back to the class.
What the fuck?
I needed this money. I needed the money, and I needed something challenging to do--both mentally and physically--so I didn't go crazy. Twice a week, I left my house, and used up all my pent-up energy from all my days on my ass at home working as an analyst.
I wasn't about to fuck this up by being stupid.
Besides, as I said, I didn't even have feelings for him anymore.
Right?
The reclining poses were longer, between a half hour and forty-five minutes, so I made sure to settle into a comfortable position before the class started again. I paid less attention to Isaac, instead letting my mind wander a little through the past. I was young when I took this class, in my early twenties, barely even an adult. How old was Isaac? In his thirties at least. He had a wife and two sons, and obviously loved them dearly. I stayed late after almost every class and helped him pack up, fold the sheets, tidy the room--anything to stay close to him, to talk with him. To be seen by him. To enjoy and agonize at the thrill washed through my body at his presence.
Get a grip, Hera. I shook my head slightly, trying to clear out the cobwebs. The space heater that hummed as it warmed my side--it got chilly in a university classroom--was doing its best to lull me to sleep. Instead, I found the golden star I'd taped to the far wall of the classroom, set below the waist-high windows that stretched from wall to wall, and focused on it.
Time passed. My eyes found Isaac again, his hands gesturing towards me as he spoke quietly with a student. "Draw bigger," he called out. "Take up space on the page. Don't be afraid to make mistakes. It's all part of the process."
God, he was so handsome. He'd rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, revealing strong arms dusted with tattoos, some wrapped around his right forearm. I knew from some of our conversations that he cycled a lot in his spare time, and loved to hike. Big into nature and all that, very in keeping with being an artist, I thought.
"Okay, that's a wrap everyone," Isaac stepped beside me and clapped his hands. "Well done all of you. Let's take a look at your pieces." He smiled at me. "Thank you, Hera."
"You're welcome." I said, standing up stiffly and wrapping myself again in my robe, the plain, well-washed linen soft and wrinkled. I took a few minutes to check out all the students' drawings, giving out a few quiet compliments myself. Before too long everyone began packing up and filing out. Ducking behind the screen Isaac had set up, I changed back into a nice pair of jeans and thick, white sweater.
When I emerged with my boots--brown leather--dangling in one hand, Isaac was leaning tiredly against a table, looking down at his hands and fiddling with his wedding ring, an absent look on his face. I watched him for a few moments before he looked up and smiled at me, something intense sparkling behind his eyes.
A glittering wave washed through my body, roaring low. Oh, I thought, stunned, unable to mask the look on my face. Okay, so I'm still attracted to him.
His eyes darkened before he looked away, his hands gripping the edge of the table, white-knuckled. Something tightened in my chest, some coiled energy trying to find a way out.
"I'll... I'll get out of here," I mumbled, walking towards the door. He nodded and busied himself with moving the tables back into place.
I risked a look behind me as I walked out and found him watching me, his eyes dark blue and hungry.
I let the door slam behind me.
-
I slammed the door of my car, too. And then my forehead into the wheel. Pressing my arms into my abdomen to quell the ache building there, I breathed in and out to the count of ten. After a few moments I cracked the window, and leaned into the crisp smell of fall: dry grasses, tart apples, leaves and rain.
"He's fucking married," I whispered. I could never--I would never--sleep with a married man. What kind of person would that make me? And he was technically my employer, nonetheless.
And yet, as I sat there breathing in the cool night air, I couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like for him to come up to me and run his fingers through my hair. For him to press his hand to the back of my head and pull me into the hard line of his body, his mouth crushing mine beneath it. To feel the heat of him against my skin. His tongue between my lips, my knees opening for him, my arms holding his body to mine. No space between us, not an inch, not even a breath. Slip of skin against skin.
I shook my head to dispel the dream. Just go home, dumbass. He's married.
After a few more steadying breaths, I stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine coughed and wheezed like an old man trying to get out of a chair.
Fuck. I let out an exasperated breath and tried again, to no avail. The engine sputtered its death throe and went silent. Shit, shit--
"SHIT!" I slammed my hand against the horn and it beeped, the sound ricocheting around the empty parking lot. Across the broad span of asphalt Isaac, loading boxes into the trunk of his car, startled and dropped one. I laughed in spite of myself, sinking low into my seat and covering my face with my hands.
