January X
Though Griffon had asked me to model for him countless times, I always put him off. I told him
I was an artist, not an artist's muse
. I was interested in making pictures, not being in them, after all, this is what we were both in school for. We had already spent the better part of a year together in our graduate program, but I probably would have never spoken to him if we hadn't happened to sit down next to each other.
From the first day of class, I pegged him as a nervous, socially anxious type. That day, when we rose to leave, with one of his characteristically jerky movements he grabbed his backpack a little too eagerly from the table and tore the strap straight off. The contents of his bag spilled out all over the studio floor: charcoal ends, composition books, loose leaf paper, so many cheap pencils and pens.
During lectures, while the rest of us feigned an air of disaffection, he let his excitement for the material leak through, unselfconsciously mmhming under his breath to the professor's ramblings. He was so earnest in his passions, but so awkward in his speech. In our classes, he raised his hand to answer questions, which no one ever did. He sat with his legs crossed, brought perfectly proportioned lunches to school wrapped in wax paper.
We often serendipitously got paired together for projects and in-class activities, so I'd attempt to chat with him over classwork, asking the usual questions to get to know someone. But his answers were always curt and confused, stuck through with long pauses that made me writhe with discomfort. Still, I could quickly tell he was attracted to me. Along with asking me to model for him and his hesitant flattery of my pictures, he rarely met my gaze. This final point was the biggest tell.
Despite all this, if I'm being honest, I found him oddly alluring. His wild hair. His large hands that I had seen hold pencils with delicacy. When he rolled up the sleeves of his shirts to paint, I noticed how his arms were covered in fine, soft hairs. And sometimes he was so surprising. Like when I caught him just before class one day, writing avidly on a piece of loose paper.
Whatcha doing,
I said, tossing my hair over my shoulder and leaning closer. I noticed he smelled like rubber erasers and something earthy--like moss or leaves after rain.
Writing a letter to my grandmother
, he said, without the least hesitation, and bent still further over the paper.
I write her once a week. Every week.
And that was all I could get out of him about that.
Or when I first caught sight of a wavy black line on his upper arm and told him he had a stray bit of charcoal there. Without laughing or looking away from his work he said very seriously that it was a tattoo of an earthworm,
his favorite of earth's creatures
.
But the other day while I was smoking behind the studio, he caught me alone and made his request again.
It would be a good time.
He stammered, not meeting my gaze.
I'll make it worth your while
. And he ran his hand through his hair, nervously shuffled from one leg to the next so that I thought, there's no harm in it.
Alright
, I said,
but I want to be treated righ
t.
Of course
! he answered, with such eagerness it startled me.
What do you have in mind?
I thought about it for a second.
A
bottle of red. Nothing cheap. That would be a start.
In reply he took my free hand in his. I didn't know what he was going for--a handshake? Was he about to kiss it? For Griffon it didn't seem out of the question. But he dropped my hand, apologized, and promised me that he would do everything in his power to make me comfortable. That I wouldn't need to worry myself about a thing.
The next night I put on a little dress. I looked at myself in the mirror: the dress showed my tits off well: just enough cleavage revealed by the low neckline. I played with putting my hair up but decided to let the chestnut curls hang loose at my shoulders. I thought about putting on lipstick but opted for a light lip gloss instead. This was only Griffon and an evening in his apartment. It was not a date, so I shouldn't make such a fuss. I turned my head to the side, wondering at my profile, and with the arc of my neck extended like that, I imagined for a moment Griffon bending down to kiss me there--how his wild hair might brush against my jawline, his tongue flick against my skin and set my pulse stirring. A fit of nervousness hit me then, but I pushed the thought away. If all went well, he wouldn't say anything weird, I'd get a little sloshed on red wine, and go home without regrets. I put my coat on and made my way to his apartment through the snow.
Standing outside his building I took one last smoke. Looking up, I could see a few windows with the lights on. He said he lived on the third floor with his roommate, Alice. She was another student in our program, a couple years ahead of us. We had never spoken. I searched the windows for signs of movement, but they were still. Suddenly, my stomach. was tied in knots. I realized, standing out there in the snow, that I wanted to impress him. I was flattered he wanted to paint me. I didn't want to disappoint. And I'd been so busy with my studies it'd been a while since I went into someone's apartment like this. I thought about the dress I was wearing, how my boobs were so full and visible, and how the fabric clung to my waist. I was probably overdressed. Would he think I was trying too hard?
There was no reason I should be nervous. After all, I was doing this boy a favor. He was a broke graduate student, as was I, just trying to make it in the art world. I thought of his awkwardness--how when not painting, he never seemed to know what to do with his hands. Tonight, he would take some sketches and I would drink some wine and we would have some friendly conversation and that would be it.
I finished my cigarette. Nothing to do then but head in. I climbed the steps. I was buzzed into the apartment and ascended the stairwell littered with layers of peeling paint. The floorboards creaked under my heels. Griffon, his shirt sleeves pulled up and graphite already staining his fingertips, was at the door with a nervous smile. He waved and led me in.
His apartment was spacious, well lit, and barely furnished. He gestured to take my coat off, and so I let him, feeling myself grow pliable under the soothing suggestion of the apartment's warmth. I must have sighed with delight because he said
I've turned the heat up for you. Make yourself comfortable.
I took off my shoes. Looked about the apartment while Griffon excused himself into the kitchen: the faded curtains drawn tight over the windows, the candles lit on the mantle, the black and white photographs in tiny frames clustered on the wall. The fireplace was empty. An oriental rug took up most of the room. An old love seat sat against one wall, surrounded by piles of books. No bookshelves. I stooped down to read the spines: Jacques Lacan, Dostoyevsky, W.G. Sebald. Mostly paperbacks. On the opposite end of the room two chairs faced the loveseat with painting easels at the ready. My stomach flipped. It was weird enough to be looked at by Griffon--but some random stranger too? He hadn't said anything about this.
Griffon came back carrying two glasses of wine. He offered one to me. It was spicy and full, coating the back of my mouth as I swallowed.
Is someone joining us?
I asked, pointing to the extra chair and easel. He must have heard the irritation in my voice, because he took on a worried look.
My roommate, Alice--if that's alright with you? If it's not, just say so, and I can tell her to leave. Only, she was excited about having a female model to work from
.
Well, it was a woman, I thought. and somehow, this fact both calmed and saddened me. If I had expectations for the evening, this fact seemed to nullify them.
But then there was the sound of a door opening down the hallway, and Alice came into the room. She set down a case of paints in front of one of the easels. Her hair, swept away from her face in a braid, was already coming loose. Her big bright eyes scanned the length of my body. She smiled.
Nanette, yes?
