Authors: Jessa Hawke
“Sure, I guess. I’m headed to meet a friend now, but I can hook up with you guys later. Take my number down,” Alex told her.
Clara punched in the numbers he dictated on her phone, feeling suddenly shy. It was the international language for interest, and a happy swell rose inside of her as she sealed the interaction down with ALEX TULIP FLORAVSKY in her phone. She swiped it shut and damn near skipped to meet her friends at the end of the platform.
“Who’s the tall glass of yum?” one of them asked, but Clara just shook her head and sealed her lips up tight; Alex Floravsky was hers, and hers alone.
Somebody had already gathered the wood for the bonfire, and the tall structure sparked blue as soon as it was lit. Clara sat amidst the chatter of the group that had congregated, but she only had one thought, and that was of Tulip’s dark eyes and the square tips of his long fingers, flattened out by years of drawing utensil use. Someone jostled her, but she barely noticed; her own fingers traveled again and again to the screen of her phone. She kept imagining that it had buzzed or vibrated, and she kept thinking she had missed a call. Yet one hour passed, then two, and still there was no word from the sexy artist.
Fireworks exploded into the dark night sky and boomed straight through Clara’s chest, an occurrence that ordinarily would have spellbound her, but tonight, she felt riddled with anxiety instead. Where was he? He was missing the only thing she had come out with her friends for; she was going home soon. Gathering up all her nerve, she slipped away from the festivities, from the couples fumbling around in the explosive dark, illuminated by showers of light that promised romance and turbulence, all rolled into one package. Somewhere deep down by the lake, far away from the laughter and cries, Clara pulled out the smooth, blank screen of her phone, pulled up the shiny new number she had just received, and typed in a message. It was several moments of held breath before she found the courage within herself to send it, and when she did, she quickly hid it away, banishing it from her mind like an unwanted demon.
A good thing indeed, this run, for it was over another hour before her phone blipped to life in her pocket.
Sorry (typed Tulip). It was great to see you, but I got held up at my friend’s. Also, it felt kind of weird to talk to your friends, since I don’t know them.
They say the phrase too cool for school is outdated, but Clara knew that this is what she had always known about Alex, and that no matter how old they got, he would never stop bucking convention. In the pang of disappointment that assailed her as she realized the evening spent waiting had passed in vain, she realized also that she held no animosity towards him in the grander scope of things. He had been honest, which was something she had always suspected was true of his nature; also, he did not like to imagine himself on the pedestal she had so conveniently placed him on, and for this too, Clara felt Tulip was worthy of admiration.
Perhaps it was that she was not badass enough for him. She had retained, in her head, the image of tattoo parlors being places where the pierced and deviant went to adorn themselves, and Clara herself was unsaturated with ink, and smooth. Clara shook her head to herself; she knew that she could not be anyone other than herself in the same way that Alex Floravsky could not show up tonight and be someone other than himself. The bonfire and banal laughter were not for him, they never were.
In the end, all we can do is be true to who we really are.
* * *
The latest image is one of a cybertronic woman riding the head of a horned devil who is pointing a machine gun at the viewer. Her thighs are meaty and thick, her waist impossibly small, the daydreams of a teenager who owns his favorite parts of a woman. The next one, completed right before it, is of a winged fairy in motion, her calf muscles bunching beneath her skin, her hands impossibly delicate. Where did she read that hands are the hardest for an artist to complete? Clara did not know.
Yet another breakup under her belt, and she felt so lost, empty to the pit of her belly. The ache in her head had not abated in days, and all the cheering up her friends tried to do was all wrong—too cheery, if that was the right term. They wanted her to pick up and move on along, but Clara was nothing if not a person who dwelled on the past and meanings. She wanted something darker, deeper, something out of character for herself, and yet also somehow familiar.
It is no surprise she ended up looking through Alex Floravsky’s work.
Later, Clara would not know what possessed her to take the step, but take it she did. She clicked open a little box at the bottom of her screen that allowed her to send a message to Tulip.
Hey, (she typed) who models for you?
The response was instantaneous.
Nobody. I mostly draw from photos. I’d kill for a live model.
Clara hesitated briefly, then lifted her fingers to the keyboard and tapped away.
How about me?
You’d do that? (Tulip asked).
With my clothes on, of course.
What a shame ;)
Clara felt a heat come to her cheeks. Heart hammering, she pounded out another message.
You want me or not?
Come over Tuesday. I’ll text you the address.
Tuesday, which was forever away, rolled around like a long-awaited gift. Gathering her clothes together, Clara wondered about the implications of going to Tulip’s home. What would it be like? Would there be a moment of transcendence, where they crossed over into the territory of connecting? Would her clothes actually stay on? She had never been drawn before, but she had always dreamed that when she was, it would be by Tulip’s hand.
The bus took forever to come. She wore loose clothing that would not mark her skin when she sat for long hours, and so had settled on an ankle-length blue dress printed with flowers that buttoned all the way up the front. It corseted up the back, leaving the dress snug around her waist and hips, the skirt providing enough length to swish when she walked. Her nerves rose on the long bus ride over; she wanted to shout to the other passengers:
I’m going to be drawn by a sexy painter! What are YOU doing with your life?
Alex Floravsky lived in a surprisingly old-fashioned building; what was surprising about it was not so much its age, but how much it reminded Clara of the apartment building she herself had grown up in. It made Alex somehow normal, a regular schmo just like the rest of them, and this appealed greatly to Clara, for it was what she suspected about him all along. She rang his number, and several minutes later, when he still had not appeared downstairs like he said he would, Clara sat down on the rickety steps in the lobby to wait. He appeared in a simple black T-shirt and dark cargo shorts, stubble peppering his face several shades darker than the rest of him. She smiled when she saw him, and together, they climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. He led her through the narrow front hallway of the apartment where a gleaming green bike hung high above their heads on a special rack.
“You ride?” Clara asked, taking off her shoes.
“Love it,” answered Alex briefly, tossing his keys onto a small shelf and nodding to someone in the living room.
She peeked in, surprised at all the rugs that were hanging on the walls and covering the floor. How very true to his roots, she thought appreciatively, and then her gaze landed on the guy sitting on the couch.
Oh my.
Lankier even than Tulip himself, the boy had a side haircut that bared one part of his skull in a buzz. His tattoos climbed up both arms, terminating at his knuckles bilaterally; they spread over his neck delicately, as if they were a mere suggestion, and his fantastically blue eyes opened at the intrusion upon his solitude.
“Hey man,” Tulip called out to him as he threaded though the room. “This is Clara. Clara, this is my roommate, Nick.”
“’sup,” said Nick, uncurling his fingers from a seemingly-empty Redbull can and placing it on the table in front of him. For two tattoo artists, they had quite the homey apartment, complete with three kittens play-fighting on the rug in front of them. They batted around a little toy mouse in a way people only find appealing in small animals, for if they were larger, it would scare them shitless.
Clara found herself drinking Nick in. He was the quintessential bad boy, that was what she thought. What about him was bad in the traditional sense of the word, Clara could not say, but there was an air of danger about him, an openness that seemed to define convention. With his feet propped up on the correct coffee table in front of him and the way he scooped up the kittens with one hand seemed to be telling the world, even when the world wasn’t watching: Fuck you, your standards, and your rules. I’ve got this down, and I refuse to be anyone I am truly not.
All in all, quite the forward way to live. Could she say that she herself would be able to adopt such a lifestyle? Clara had to chuckle at the speed at which her brain processed all those thoughts; it took no longer than the exact amount of time it took to cross that living room, and the second set of thoughts as Nick’s eyes travelled up and down her body in what Clara assumed was an appreciative manner, was whether it was the stability and good girl image she was sure emanated from her that appealed to him.
Tulip’s room was at once organized and wonderfully chaotic. A brand-new laptop screen featured prominently on the desk in the center of the room, which made sense, considering it was where he created the artwork that had drawn her to him in the end. The rest of it was filled with subjects that served as his muse: a skull bought online that would assist in drawing head shapes, a bright red scarf whose color would tantalize the imagination. The kittens padded into the room, light on their feet and a pleasure to the eye. Tulip’s works hung on the walls, mounted on plain canvas, adding the ultimate personal touch; Clara did not see the line drawings she had liked, but neither did she see the nudes. Tulip had set up a chair for her catty-corner away from the laptop and drawing board, and she was pleased to see that not only was the entire room clean, but he had also evidently changed the sheets.
Still lingering from the heated look with Nick, Clara took in the soft plaid comforter and large, overstuffed pillows. The bed was parallel to the window of the room, and quite suddenly, the image of laying there in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and socks, bathing in the golden light of the afternoon came over her; she chuckled quietly to herself as she wondered if perhaps the reason she felt like Alex was a kindred spirit was because she was part cat herself.
She slipped her bag to the floor as Tulip went into the kitchen to pour himself some tea. Settling into the chair, she relaxed her body and tried to find a comfortable position in the chair; she finally decided on a reposed look with her legs thrown over the leg of the chair, which caused some immediate concerns about the pressure points on her body. She shook her waterfall of light brown hair down her back and told herself she gave no damns. She would be like the models of yore who were celebrated by their abilities to hold positions for long periods of time without moving a single inch. As Tulip re-entered the room, sipping honey-sweetened jasmine tea, she straightened out a little, determined to be the model worthy of his genius.
He readied his computer and asked her if she would like anything in particular to distract her while he worked. She settled on a comedy routine, mostly because she wanted to gauge his reactions to it, see if his sense of humor was just as expansive as she had always imagined it to be. He settled her into position, with just a few cues as to how to tilt her head and hold her neck. He said he wanted to see her face; she wanted to be in a position where she could observe the lean workings of the muscles in his abdomen and the long, almost spider-like digits of his hands. She loved hands, especially the hands of people who work almost exclusively with them. Clara thought she could understand nearly everything about a person from their hands; since Tulip worked mainly with computers to create his art, he did not have ink or paint-stained fingers, and as he navigated the mouse, she wondered what it would be like to have her body dealt with as deftly as his tools.
The comedian quickly brought many smiles to her face, which did not seem to bother Tulip as he sketched out her body. She felt his eyes travel over her, acutely aware of what he was looking at in each moment he looked at her. He drank in her shoulders, her thighs, and the flesh on her arms felt wonderfully creamy and smooth underneath his gaze. The faintest blush settled on his cheeks as he drew her breasts, and she could tell he was trying to find that balance between staring too much and not being able to do them justice. Moreover, he wanted to look. It was in that moment that she realized something.