The clicking of Evelynne's heels down the hallway announced her arrival well before she was within sight. Even in the busy hallway of a Parisian University, that sound still drew the gazes of onlookers who picked out the clear, high notes amid the bustle and gossip. Some gazes lingered, some averted. On any given day, it was a toss-up as to which would be more common. Her face- immaculately made up to enhance her natural beauty- hair, and fashion were more than enough to steal the heart- or at the very least the imagination- of any man. And it was little wonder, she had been doing it on purpose for so long that it was effortless. More than second nature, feminine seduction had ceased to be a concept separate from her identity.
Yet the elephant in the room continuously left men too self-conscious- too drugged by society's standards- to maintain the gaze for long. The tremendous musculature boasted by her every curve, much as it made her resemble a masterwork of some forgotten Renaissance sculptor, proved too much for their fragile egos to handle. Be it in school, in the street, or at the gym, she knew that look. That rub of the arm and the less-subtle-than-intended glance at one's own physique that gave away the feeling of inadequacy within the majority of the male population. She was the most muscular human being in France, and they couldn't handle it. 'I could never find a girl more muscular than me attractive' was the thought that went through their heads. And if not, it was 'What would my social circle think of me if I dated such a girl?'
Yet still that first longing glance remained. Whether they knew it or not- whether they accepted it or not- she was hot as hell, and their bodies reacted to that immutable fact of the universe. That little quirk of the lips and raise of the brow enchanted them, dispelling thoughts about her strength for the barest of moments to invite them to imagine a night in her private company. And quite often, these thoughts were accompanied by a downward glance at her tantalizing breasts. She was not a bodybuilder- tone was not her goal. As such, her well-preserved healthy, feminine fat collected in the most flattering of places, producing a look curvier than any peer's. A true glamazon. There was rarely a time that she cast a glance over her shoulder and did not spot somebody admiring the view below her belt line. And if only some honest man had the courage to approach her and the mental fortitude to hold a real conversation, they would know the pleasures that waited there.
Alas, it was always one or the other with men, it seemed. Macho, or schmoe, with no inbetween. She dispelled the thought before it fully crystallized, this morning. She didn't need to deal with that gnawing pit of frustration again.
Turning a corner, she entered her classroom- already mostly full, she enjoyed arriving right before the beginning of class. Every eye in the room went to her, and a quiet thrill warmed her chest for a moment as she took her seat in silence. Arriving on the dot had become a science to her.
While the activity in the room continued- as though somebody had hit the pause button, then resumed play- she set her books down and produced a pen from her bag. Rather than deal with a bulky and often unfashionable backpack, she opted instead to rely upon the school's lockers and carry her books from class to class. Even this ritual repeated at every class was carefully tailored. Neat books, tactically arranged for comfort and space, and pen dancing gracefully between her fingers, she was ready right as the teacher walked in.
...
Emanuel ran through the hallways- not too quickly, not wanting to run into anyone- but not wanting to be too late. He didn't particularly care about art history class- he was an artist, not a historian after all- but he had a reason to be on time today. Or at least not too late. Unfortunately, a broken automatic door had slowed him down today, so there wasn't much he could do at this point but hustle.
Few paid him any attention. Skinny, blonde, just slightly above average height, bespectacled- why should they? He was an ordinary student in just about every sense. Well, there was the fact he was British, not French, but nobody could tell that just by looking at him. But he rarely dwelt on any of that. He wasn't after notoriety in any sense, he was just a guy living his life.
Trying not to breathe too hard, he slowed his step as he made it to the room, right as the teacher was doing so, herself. Hunching in a subconscious effort to make himself less noticeable, he slipped in behind her and made his way to his seat, where he quietly set to readying his work materials. Book, pen, ink... He had no intention of studying in this class though. Today was going to be the day!
His eyes wandered to the object of his excitement- Evelynne Moreaux, sitting perfectly straight in her seat, the model student, on the front row. Chewing his lips nervously, he put his pencil to his paper and set to sketching. Words- especially French ones- were not his strength, but when it came to art, he knew how to express himself. He hoped that would be enough.
...
An hour and forty-eight minutes later, the professor wrapped up the lesson, and the class began noisily packing up. Evelynne, for her part, simply stacked up her books, put her smaller things in her purse, and got up, one of the first out the door.
She had just rounded the first corner on her way to the lockers when she heard the footfall of someone jogging in sneakers behind her, and a voice called out. "Miss Moreaux!"
She stopped and turned, eyes raised in surprise and curiosity. Who...?
A skinny blonde young man, as tall as she was in heels, stood there, face flushed, holding an envelope in his hands. She had noticed him earlier when he had slipped in late- actually, she had noticed him long before, having observed her classmates on numerous occasions. She didn't know his name, but he was cute. "Yes? What is it?" she addressed him, once she had turned around.
"I um... I have... I made this," he stammered, holding out the envelope.
Her heart skipped a beat, mind immediately springing in a hundred different directions, some hopeful and others more mundane, as her eyes fell onto the white envelope he held forth. Rather than put the flustered boy on the spot by asking him what it was, she simply placed her books on a nearby flat surface and took it.
Her eyes, clear and blue, darted to him for a moment, forgetting her measured poise as a look of curiosity and anticipation replaced her natural confident expression, then back down to the note and she opened it.
It wasn't a note at all. She blinked, a small gasp escaping her lips as she unfolded the paper inside, to see herself, drawn in a curious yet clearly well-drawn style. It was inked, and he clearly had put much effort into it. The varying thickness of the lines showed that he had used precise drawing utensils to create it. And she was beautiful. Surrounded by roses and vines, she looked both powerful and beautiful. She couldn't help but blush as she took it in. There was only one thing this could be.
At length, she lowered the picture and smiled at the boy who had given it to her. "It's beautiful." She was taken off-guard. Nothing like this had ever happened before. But she quickly collected herself, though the grin possessing her lips proved impossible to exorcise. "I'm flattered. Thank you." She folded the paper and slipped it back into its envelope. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage- I don't know your name."
"Emanuel," he said hastily. "I-I'm glad you like it."
His clear nervousness was endearing. "Would you care to walk with me to the lockers, Emanuel?" she invited, smiling softly and invitingly.
His eyes widened, no doubt amazed this was going so well. "Yes, of course! Can I help you carry anything?"
"That's very kind of you. Of course." She picked up her books, "You can take some of these."
He did so, nervously. Like he was afraid to touch her. "You uh... You like it?"
"I do, very much," she laughed softly. "I think I will frame it in my room, in fact."
"Oh wow, uh... I'm really glad you do!"
"Where are you from, Emanuel?" she asked, eyes on him as they walked side by side. "You have a little bit of an accent- English?"
"Yes, that's right," he said, seeming to relax a bit. "From Ipswich."
"What brings you to France?"
"Well, I want to study art- I am studying art, I mean. And France is, well..."
"Yes, it is," she agreed, smirking with amusement.
"Are you an artist too?" he ventured timidly.
"No, merely an appreciator. I'm afraid I don't have much talent for visual art, but I love art in all of its forms."
