The sculptor

"Who is that?"

I try to nod discretely into the direction of the brooding young man leaning against the wall. Army jacket with the collar up, the bottle of beer in his hand casually dangling against the inside of his thighs cloaked in a ripped jeans. From under his long hair he looks at the crowd in the pub, judging, a slight smirk on his beautiful heart shaped mouth.

Now and again our eyes meet.

Then he takes a sip of his beer and looks away.

"He's a 4th year. Monumental. Don't you know him? He lives in your building, I think." My friend Sas says.

"He does?"

"I think so. He is in that gang with the other sculptors, with those drama goddesses as groupies. His girlfriend is the nude model we had in class yesterday. She does drama too. Arrogant bitch."
I remember the beautiful brunette we had to sketch in model drawing. She is one of the untouchable goddesses of the drama academy who pose for us, not for the money but to show of their glorious bodies - like dryads, luring our male art school students away from us, more plain girls.

"Is he? You know his name?"

"Uhh Gerry, Freddy or Mikey. Something working class ending with a y."
"That's helpful, mushy brains" I poke Sas. She shoves me. Then pulls me towards her,  mock choking me.

"Let me jugulate you, you nasty pixie!"

Giggling I fend her off. I try to regain my posture and comb my hair behind my ear. All very John Travolta cool. I see the guy looking at me. He smiles. Then looks away.

"I think he used to live above me. Never saw him though." I laugh. "I really have no idea who lives upstairs from me actually!"

"You should check it out. Know thy neighbours! You really are socially awkward."

"Probably, yeah." And we toast.

At the first beats of a favourite song I pull Sas on the dance floor. Our friend Martin joins us in the exuberant post modern dance we art school students perform to make ourselves stand out. We mixed in an old fashioned jive too. But Martin's hands are slippery and as he grabs my hand to twirl me around we loose grip and I stumble backwards.

Up against the warm but hard body of the brooding sculptor. A strong arm clasps around my waist, his fingers spread over my belly. Pulls me tighter and I can feel his breath against my ear when he says:

"Be careful, my frisky child."

His soft, deep voice gives me chills.

With big eyes I look over my shoulder. From behind an amazing lock of hair his eyes seem to fixate me. I think I gasp. It is as if time stands still. Oh such clichés. But yeah.  He chuckles.

And then he elegantly pushes me back onto the dance floor, where dazed, I continue our dance.
I can feel his fingers still etched on my skin, though.

The next day I kind of feel like a silly, green poser. Frisky child, the sculptor had called me. Yes, I must seem a child with my giggling act of avant-garde artistry.

Sas, Martin and I stayed on the dance floor a while, and all the time I felt the brooding gaze of the longhaired guy on me. But when I looked at him he averted his eyes.  A bored but leery expression on his face.

So he lives in my building? Maybe I should ask Adrian, a student for life, who shares my kitchen. He knows everybody in this town and he lives on the next floor.

I get out of bed. Get a towel and my douche gel and walk through the long corridor to the bathroom. This is an old building. Like a labyrinth. I pass the stairs to the next floor. I look up. Dark. Maybe I can explore things later this day.

Socially awkward. Probably. But I guess I'm just shy. First year, academy of contemporary art, far away from the safe warmth of my family home.

As always the small, shared bathroom grosses me out a bit. Need to clean it before I take a shower. Today is no exception.

When I finish showering I walk back to my room again. I hear music coming from upstairs. Adrian must be home and awake.

Although I'm only wearing a tee and boxer shorts I decide to go upstairs and knock on Adrian's door.

Nobody answers.

The music comes from another room.
When I stealth over the upstairs floor, curious, I see a shadow of a figure standing in a small alcove. I start. But when I get closer I see it is the coarse torso of man figure made out of plaster. Then I hear the sounds of people's laboured breathing, as if in pain.

The hairs on my arms stand out.

I continue my search.

A door to another room is slightly ajar. When I get closer the sound of the music is louder and so is the grunting.

I know I shouldn't peek, but I do.

I see them. The longhaired sculptor and a girl. But it isn't the nude model from our drawing class, but one of the other 'drama goddesses'.