I'm not sure why I was there, I never enjoyed the beach much, but yet again my family had dragged me out into the middle of nowhere. At least there were real houses here and not some sort of worn down shack. In fact, the place seemed not too different from most residential areas in suburban towns, though a bit higher class I suppose.
Those better off (and they'd have to be if they could afford to live on a waterfront area) certainly liked to show off. Most houses were shiner, cleaner than I'd tend to expect from a beach. But why was I here? My grandparents invited me out, thought I could use the fresh air I guess.
"You're too thin and pale, Robert."
I'm 20 years old and an art student. Of course I'm pale, of course I'm thin. When one is painting you don't just stop in the middle to go and feed yourself, you paint until exhausted. Suffice to say, my body of work maybe substantial, but I'm 5'8" and I only weigh 118lbs. My hair is long and brown, I dress in black, and I care more about my work than my health. Cleverly though, my grandmother somehow managed to "lose" all of my paints, pencils, paper, and other art supplies that had the letter "P" in them.
"I don't understand it, they were in the car before we left. Oh dear... suppose I accidentally left them in the living room? Well it's too late to go get them now. I suppose you'll have to find other things to do."
Right. They dragged me out here with the promise of beautiful landscapes, and peace and quiet. Then my supplies get left behind.
"I guess now all you'll have to do is wander around, collecting inspiration for when you get back."
About as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face. I'm sure they hope I'll meet some nice girl out on the beach somewhere and focus more on humans. I don't have much interest in a relationship right now, not a good place in my life.
The afternoon of the second day, they kick me out (albeit politely) and send me off to wander the beach. Forget that. I take a left at the end of the road. More houses, rather nice ones too. I walk in the space between a white house and a blue house and end up in someone's backyard. The house in front of me is yellow, and there is a white backdoor in front of me. I can see no car in the driveway. What the hell, this beats ignoring the girls down at the beach. I reach for the door and test it, only to find it unlocked. "Of course it's not locked", I think to myself, "No 'bad element' should be around for miles." Bah. It's not like I'm gonna steal anything, just gonna take a look around. I walk inside; the door leads right into the kitchen. My heart is pounding a mile a minute. I walk through a door on the wall opposite me into a living room. A couch, a recliner, TV, coffee table, pretty usual. I notice there aren't any photographs anywhere, but there is an art print or two here and there. All pointillist landscapes. The place is neat and tidy, kinda smallish, but certainly sized for one. "This is probably a condo or apartment", I wonder to myself, "the building is much larger than this."
The room has five doors, one to the kitchen, one is the front door, I assume that the one nearest the front door is a coat closet, so the remaining two must be a bedroom and a bathroom. I walk into the one on my left. It's the bedroom. Very well made up, nice and neat like the rest of the house. There's a bathroom, to the left, and interestingly, there is a walk-in wardrobe to my right. Especially odd since a dresser is directly next to the door on my left. I move over to the wardrobe and test the doors. Locked. Near by is a print of "Olympia" by Stephen Hale. I move into the bathroom. Clean, nothing interesting. I'm growing bored, the thrill of trespassing has worn off. I decide to check the other bathroom before I leave. Once I open the door I realize I'm mistaken. The amazing view is the first thing that hits me. The entire wall on the right side of the building, the wall opposite me, is made of glass; White curtains are bunched at the sides. Out side of the window the world seems to drop off altogether, to be replaced by nothing but clear blue water. "Maybe the ocean isn't so terrible after all" I marvel to myself. Then I notice the smell, that wonderful smell of dreams. Acrylics, Oils, Watercolors. The person is a painter. There is an easel in front of me with a blank canvas on it; between it and the window is a wide closed wood box, with cloth draped over it. It's a stage for a model. I wander around a bit and find brushes soaking, a stained pallet or two, lot's of half empty tubes of paint, and this person's work. All male models, all nude. His work is very Rococo, only more sensual, and very, very, arousing. My heart is slowly starting to beat faster again as I look at a new painting. Some of these seem to be darker as they go along. That man almost looks like he... A car door. Shit. I'm half way through the paintings, and I lean them back against the wall, my heart now doing double time. The front door opens. Double shit. I hear the owner moving about his living room. I imagine an over coat going into the coat closet, and then the person walking into the bedroom. Change their clothes. Footsteps approach the studio door. I panic. My hearts a full marching band. Can I go out the window? That'd be suicide. I freeze, and the door opens.
I'm confronted by a man in his early 40's. He's wearing dark slacks, and a paint stained long button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair is short, and graying. He's a very clean looking man, almost seems like he's be conservative. He doesn't seem shocked at all to see me.
