It had been an hour, and I still had no idea if we were on a date or not. For most of the afternoon, Faith wore that usual look of hers, like she was deep in some conversation with herself that she didn't especially want interrupted. But when she did look my way, it was with that beautiful, cupid's face with those pale blue eyes that could change shape so completely with the expression on her face. Even in the weird light in the art gallery, the peachy color of her lips stood out against her fair skin. It was hard not to stare. So, maybe one bonus of asking her out to a gallery show that it wasn't too strange to just stand and look at her. Someone I knew from the neighborhood was showing a few new paintings, and the rest of the gallery was someone local I didn't know, but Faith said she knew the artist from a show they'd done together. Anyway, it was my best guess for an excuse to ask her out. And now we were there, and I couldn't tell if 'asking her out' had actually happened or I'd just imagined it. Faith had a way with quiet that could be endearing or infuriating, I guess, depending what you wanted from her. That day, it was driving me up the wall. She had no problem at all standing a foot away from me in perfect silence for whole minutes, just staring at some piece of artwork, thinking whatever she was thinking. Not talking, not touching, and not even acknowledging me (or anyone else, for that matter) except for an occasional, serene smile. I was having a good time, okay? No complaints. A stroll through a gallery with a gorgeous, artistic friend-of-a-friend was more romance than I'd got from anyone else lately, anyway. And I admit that sometimes there was something intimate about being let in on that silence with her. But not for the first time, she had me wondering if she was the awkward one or I was.
Faith had been renting a room in a friend's house not far from my neighborhood, and staking out as much garage space as she could in the process. Faith was a sculptor. I saw little bronzes and ceramic things of hers all over town, once I learned to spot them. The animals and figures she did always had this half-dreaming look on their faces, like they were just about to wake up from something. Once you'd seen a few, you started connecting that look with Faith herself. When you really looked at her sculptures, it wasn't hard to imagine her at work, hours without any words or distractions, mashing and smoothing a block of clay into what she wanted it to be. Not hard to believe that was where she felt at home.
And, if we're really talking about why it seemed so important to ask her out, I should also mention the last time I'd seen her. We were both at a party, at the mutual friends' house where she was renting. She left the too-crowded living room around midnight, vanishing through her garage door to the peace of her studio. I happened to notice, because I'd 'happened' to be watching her all night, not that she made any sign that she noticed. I stepped through the kitchen a minute later and snuck through into her studio, where she knelt down beside a slab of clay. The form of a big cat was taking shape in it, but something about it didn't satisfy her, I guess. Her body postured and stretched to mimic the form she was sculpting, maybe trying to find the balance in it, and she smoothed the line of its spine and hips with her hands. She bent down low, forcing her round hips and her narrow back to mimic the posture of the cat, and... well, I was watching every move she made. There's no other way to say it. Even her lips pursed and drooped to match whatever mood or form she was looking for. The light tunic she wore over her peach-colored tights untangled from her the more she ignored it, and her braid had come completely undone, leaving her long, light hair dripping to the floor. There was no sign she'd even noticed I was in the room -- unless, of course, the show was all for my eyes. Which was hard to believe, but I didn't know what to think. I sat and watched her for long, long minutes while she arched her back and rolled her shoulders, swishing her ass languidly from one side to the other. I almost expected her to purr. But she only struck poses, swayed to feel their mass, and watched the sculpture as if she were hunting it, or daring it to pounce on her. I wished I could have been the block of clay. Just to feel her stare, and to lie so very, very close to her body. And just her style, she did it all in perfect silence, never giving me even a glance to settle any of the questions racing through my mind.
I escaped from the room without even looking back, and walked the six blocks to my house with an ache that ran from my cock to the center of my chest. The memory is still burned into my mind, of the smell of clay and the sight of her body posing in that garage. I'd called her a few days later to ask her out, but I got her voicemail and she texted back a little later. No mention of that night, whatever it had been. We made plans easily enough, but there wasn't much else to it -- I invited her out, she said yes, we met up, and there we were.
When we'd seen everything in the gallery, I asked if she wanted to get a cup of coffee, but she said she had to get home. She also said we should meet up again soon, so I didn't want to assume she was brushing me off. But what can you do?
"Yeah," I said, "we should get together again soon. I'd like to see you again." That's clear, right? She just said 'yeah', and we did a kind of awkward side-hug. I held onto her hand for just a second during the last goodbye, but if that didn't tell her that I was interested, then I didn't know what else to do. I texted her the next day to say it had been fun seeing her, and when her 'me too' didn't come with any follow-up, I pretty much wrote it off. I could spin my wheels forever trying to figure out what she wanted, but I've been there before. Better to move on than to stick around where you're not welcome.
It was late at night about a week later when I got a text from her number. (All of the texts we'd sent each other, to that point, fit on one screen.) The message was 'May I ask you a kind of a weird favor?' I sat considering my phone for a minute. I thought I was in for the night, but I couldn't resist finding out more about that weird favor.
'I need someone to model for me.' her next text said. I raised my eyebrows and felt a grin creep across my face.
'That'd be a new one.' I texted back with a smilie. 'But, yeah, I guess I'm up for it.' I immediately had second thoughts about the phrasing, but I guess it didn't matter.
'Can you come over?' she said in her next message.
'What, tonight?'
A longer pause, then 'Yes.' I was picturing her face, lit up by a phone screen, wearing that patient, cat-and-mouse look.
'Yeah, I guess.' I sent back. 'Anything I should bring?'
'Do you have a space heater?'
I didn't. And the playful banter wasn't quite as playful as I'd hoped, to this point. But in a few more messages I'd agreed, and by midnight I was parking outside the house. I knocked quietly on the side door into the garage.
"Hey, Faith," I smiled at her.
"Thanks for coming over." she whispered through the door. She invited me into the garage. She was wearing a white bathrobe over a t-shirt, probably an absentminded pick to hold off the cool in the room. I watched her ankles flex as she tiptoed through the mess to cross the floor. She'd rearranged things since the last time I saw her studio. There were worklights clamped to the beams in the garage's ceiling, and a big, beaten-up rug rolled out on part of the floor, with all of her tools and sketchbooks scattered across it. Water bottles and a half-empty bottle of white wine shared a coffee table with a heavy slab of clay. You could tell it was a figure, a man lying on his side, but only in the broadest strokes, so far.
