The sculptor; part 4

It's Thursday. And today we will be sketching nude models. I hope it is that older really chubby woman. She is beautiful and interesting to draw. Her veins are very visible. She knows exactly how to pose, every 5 minutes a different one. I used acrylic the last time, with a lot of water. Vivid colours.

But when I enter the classroom I see one of the drama goddesses, the brunette, waiting in her bathrobe.
She is very beautiful, but for an artist rather dull. Too perfect. And the poses she strikes are sexy, possibly, but do not hold any challenge for me.

Today we will only do two or three poses. More time.

She is lying on a sofa, with a cloth party draped over her legs.
Her pubic hair is shaved into a landing strip. I find no inspiration in that. She is just too plastic.

Her hair shines and she wears it in a loose bun to show her cream coloured swan's neck.
She has cold blue eyes with Betty Davis eyeliner. A hard mouth. Dissatisfied.

I think of the sculptor who lives upstairs from me. I wonder if she knows he fucks other girls.
I'm staring at her a while. Pondering.
I decide to work with black ink. Make the sketch with crude sharp lines. I make several sketches on one paper. I frame some of them into boxes, like a cartoon.  The pen I use sometimes gets stuck in the paper, causing aggressive splatters. Then I smear black crayon on my fingers and fill in the round parts.
Sharp lines and soft fingers strokes.
The teacher walks by.
"Interesting what you are doing. Very graphical and on the other hand tender."
He continues to praise my work. Tells the class how you should always try to add some more effort to your work, in order to excel. He makes me blush. It feels uncomfortable though.
The girl looks into my direction.

Inquisitive and haughtily.

"Hálwen," the teacher says for every one to hear," I have a little group of students who sometimes meet to discuss art and drink a bit. Just for fun and to extend a chosen path. I would like to invite you. A sculptor, two painters, an illustrator and a graphic designer are in this group. You would be an excellent complement to the group considering what you have shown so far."

A sculptor, he said. I have the dreaded feeling it is my upstairs neighbour.

I stutter. "I would love to come."

The model squints her eyes.
She gets her bathrobe and goes to the dressing room. Leaving a trail of dust behind her, coming from the cloth she pulls with her in a dramatic gesture. Like a prima donna.

End of class, but I feel there is something wrong also.

In the evening I'm making macaroni. With tomatoes and cheese. Simple.
Adrian walks into the kitchen. I hadn't seen him in a while. He lives upstairs and is a lot older than me, than any of the students that live here. I'm not even sure if he is a student.

But he's nice.

"Hey pixie girl, my favourite neighbour, what are you chopping?"
"Onions." I sniff, teary eyed.

He walks to the stove and lifts up the lid of the pan.
"So much macaroni! Are you cooking for all of us?"

I laugh.
"I don't even know how many people live in our house. But I'd love to share some of it with you."

I hesitate.
"Adrian?"

"Hmm?" He sniffs the tomato sauce I'm cooking.

"Who lives in that room above mine? I thought it was empty, but I think I heard someone there recently."

"You mean the sculptor?"
"I guess."
"He comes and goes. Lives at his girlfriends house most of the time. And Eddie is in a band and he's almost never at home. He was abroad some weeks ago.  Touring. But I guess he's back now, since you've heard him. I'm not sure."

"Eddie?"

"Yep. That's his name. Ed. Extraordinary fellow."

I eat my macaroni in front of the TV.  After I cleaned up I go to bed. I know, it's still early, but I'm tired.
The light from the street shines into my room. Making shadows. The drawings I made of the sculptor and the goddess are still on my wall.
Martin recognized the sculptor.

I told him what I had seen. He said he was jealous. He thinks he fell in love.
I giggle and turn around.

I must have been for an hour or so when a noise in the hallway disturbs me from a vivid dream.

A bang against my door makes me sit upright in bed. I hear soft whispers. Again a sound as if someone is pushing against my door. I hear moaning!

Then soft laughter. A low voice.
A man and a woman.
Is it the sculptor? Eddie?
I think they are making out, by the sound of it.

I couch discretely.

A giggle and a shushing sound.

The door across my room is being opened. The toilet. I hear someone peeing. Flushing. They could have at least closed the door, I think annoyed.
And then silence.

The following day I wake up all grumpy and irritated. I've been hearing music all night long and also lot of squeaking, thumping and other annoying sounds coming from above me.

I get my toiletries and towel and walk on flip flops to the bathroom.
When are they going to repair that lock, I think feeling annoyed, trying to put the hook in such a way that at least it is clear the bathroom is occupied.

I undress and hang my tee and boxer on the chair and as always I start my cleaning ritual. Using the shower head and a brush to remove the hairs and grime, performing acrobatic stances, careful not to touch anything that is still dirty.

I'm done so I reach to close the curtain when I see someone standing in the room, arms crossed and with a grin on his face.

Eddie.

"Please continue, my sedulous little water nymph." He says with amusement in his voice.