He turns back to the paper, and his pencil marks begin to take shape—the shape of your chin? you think.
You know he’s right. Your questions haven’t been thought provoking, or even a bit interesting. “Fine, fine. Music—what type of music do you like?”
His head falls back. “Oh, come on,” he moans, his heavy voice dramatically drawling out every syllable.
“Hey!” you snap. “Music is a very important part of someone’s soul. You can find out nearly everything about a person by knowing the type of music they listen to.”
His laugh is soft. He raises his head and turns around to face you. His eyes find yours. “Soul?”
The way he says the word makes you shiver, despite the warm air flowing through the open windows into the room. You shift on your stool, trying to distract yourself from the goose bumps covering your skin. There’s absolutely no reason for one word, one syllable, to have you reacting like this.
“Answer the question, Daniel,” you say with a mock-stern expression, and he shakes his head, a wide grin covering his face. His lips have a slight purple tint to them, and, once again, his smile is contagious.
“Yes, ma’am.” He turns his stool back to the easel, facing away from you. “I like the old stuff, like Morrissey. But mostly blues; you know, Guthrie, Lead Belly.”
His answer doesn’t surprise you. You wouldn’t have pegged him for someone who listens to the Hot 100, but still, you’re impressed.
His pencil marks are beginning to take shape, and you can’t believe you’re letting a stranger draw you. You’re impressed once more when you notice the resemblance between you and the barely-there drawing. He hasn’t done much yet, but the shape of your face is beginning to come together, and you’re instantly aware of the talent within him. You continue to watch him move; the lines and marks begin to take shape, and it’s . . . fascinating.
“What about you? What music do you like?” he asks, and you realize you haven’t spoken since he answered.
“I like it all, really; I’m familiar with Morrissey—” you begin, but he interrupts.
“More than just ‘Suedehead,’ right?”
Morrissey’s most well-known song; to prove yourself you nod, even though Daniel is still facing the easel. “My dad and I used to listen to every song, except ‘Suedehead,’ actually. He hated that one.” You feel warm at the memory of your dad lip-synching every word of every album by the rocker.
“You’re making me feel seventy instead of twenty-nine,” he teases, and turns around to smile at you. You pegged him for at least twenty-five, but his skin is just so clear, his smile is so radiant, that you assume he’s had it pretty easy. He doesn’t look like someone who’s ever known what it’s like to suffer; you don’t see any trace of hardship on this man’s face. Think positive—you can’t judge him for having a good life. You stop yourself from going farther down the negative tunnel that’s your own mind.
Daniel’s sketch has gone from a half-moon to the shape of your face. He shades your mouth quickly, drawing the curve of your bottom lip. When you sketch, you typically begin with facial features and form the shape of the face last.
“Are you out of questions already? I have a few that I would like to ask you.” His tone is so innocent, and the way his accent plays at each word makes him seem all the more dangerous. “You know, research for my work and all.”
He’s quite the charmer. He turns back to you, leaving his work in progress. The class is still moving along; the students in the row in front of you have completed half of the bowl of fruit already. Your page is blank, but you’re more fascinated by Daniel than by capturing some produce on a page.
You’re curious about the questions he has for you; even though asking the questions gave you an advantage in the game, you can’t help but wonder what he will ask.
Noticing that his eyes are focused on your mouth, you wave your hand in the air. “Ask away, Daniel.”
“I like the way it sounds when you say my name,” he says, as if it’s the most simple of statements.
You quietly gasp without meaning to, and he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, studying you still. You can’t think of a single thing to say in response. You stare at the way his perfect teeth press into his lip. It’s unfair that he’s so attractive. Plus, not only is he attractive but he’s interesting, a quality you haven’t come across in many people.
A few seconds pass, and he finally turns his eyes away from your mouth and up to your eyes. “What makes you happy?”
His question floats through the air, unexpected and unassuming. You look away from his blue eyes to process it. You’re grateful when he turns back around to the paper and lets you think through your answer. What makes me happy? What makes me happy? you ask yourself over and over, trying to sift through all the things in your life. You like school, but you actually hate it because you feel like you’re forcing yourself to choose a career before you know what you want to do. You like your apartment complex, but what kind of answer would that be? Um, my apartment building makes me happy? No thanks.
You care about your parents even though you barely speak to them. Your mom’s new husband is nice; your mom calls every once in a while, when she can break away from catering to him and his colleagues. You haven’t spoken to your father in years. You don’t have any siblings, and Los Angeles hasn’t blessed you with any friendships yet.
“I . . .” You continue to search for something to say. “I . . . well, what makes me happy is . . .” You struggle to come up with one single thing. How is that possible? You’ve never been the cheeriest of people, but it’s not possible that you don’t have a single thing in your life that makes you happy.
Your difficulty with this makes you question nearly everything in your life.
When Daniel looks at you, you feel the heat in your cheeks. You’re embarrassed, even though you don’t really have a reason to be.
He seems to notice your discomfort and changes the subject. “What’s your favorite form of art? Do you prefer painting, sketching, music, acting, writing?”
He’s kind.
“Drawing. I like to write too, though I’m not good at it. I love music, but I don’t have any talent to create it. I like to sketch, though not bowls of fruit. I like landscapes the most, I guess I’d say. I use markers as my medium mostly. It’s odd, I know. Most people hate to use markers because they bleed, they leave pools of ink, but I prefer them to pencils. The colors are brighter, more alive, you know?”
You take a breath at the end of your lengthy babbling, and his eyes are lighter, focused on you.
“That was a long answer,” you breathe. “It counts as two.”
“No, no. It surely doesn’t.” He laughs and turns back to the easel. “What’s your favorite place you’ve ever visited?”
You haven’t done much traveling in your life. In fact, you never left the state you were born in until a few months ago when you came to California. “I haven’t traveled much,” you say, looking down at the toes of your dirty boots.
“Much, or at all?” Daniel asks.
“At all. My mom was supposed to take me to Disney World when I was ten, and when I was sixteen . . . my best friend and I tried to run away from the shitty town we’re from, but her car broke down, so we didn’t make it out.” You’re not sure why you’re telling him such specifics about your life, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He soaks them in, his hands still moving, creating.
“Seems like you made it out just fine.”
You can’t see his face, but you sense that he’s smiling.
“What about you—where’s your favorite place that you’ve been?”
He ponders your question for a few seconds. “Sweden. It’s cold as fuck, but I love it there. If it were warmer and I could get work there, I would never leave the place.”
You don’t know much about Sweden, and you realize that you probably don’t know much about anything compared to this foreign, well-traveled, insanely attractive,
well-spoken man. Instead of comparing your inadequacies to his achievements, you change the subject.