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.

The sculptor; part 3

I feel cornered somehow. Not really by him. He just leans against the counter, almost casually despite his lack of clothing. But by myself. I long to touch his smooth hairless chest. Feel the warm with my fingers. Explore the dark trail leading towards....stop it!
You'll make a fool of yourself!

"Hi," I say. And offer him my hand. "I'm Hálwen."

He keeps staring in my eyes. Ignores my hand.

"Hálwen." He seems to taste my name. "What an odd name."

He looks at me pensive, stroking his stomach with his hand. Drawing attention to the tight muscles under his tan skin.

I feel my cheeks burn.

Then shrug my shoulders and return to the teacups, rinse them under the tap.
He doesn't speak for a while. But I still feel his eyes on me. Same as yesterday, I keep feeling his physical presence and his acknowledgement of mine. I know he follows my every move, making them awkward and rigid.

I freeze when I suddenly feel a warm hand on my shoulder; moving to my neck, thumb in the nape, touching my slightly sweaty hair - softly caressing the skin.

I'm not sure if I want to shake him off or start purring.

"Why so tense, beautiful child."

I rest my hands on the counter, breathe in with a shudder.

"I'm not a child."

I turn and look up in his eyes. Amazing eyes. Incredible colour. Huge irises. Dilated pupils like bottomless wells, eyes surrounded by thick brown lashes.

He scans my face, lowers those eyes. A sensation like he is touching my breasts.

"I know." He says enigmatic, gazes back to my eyes, to my mouth, my ears. It feels as if he caresses my face.

I lift my hand, willing to touch the soul patch under his full under lip, when Martin walks into the kitchen.

"Well helloooo." He says.

"Martin." Relieved and disappointed I turn to my friend. "Almost ready."

I smile.
Look back at the rogue sculptor who takes a step back and turns to Martin.

"Well, well." He says with one brow lifted. "She has a male visitor."

Martin laughs nervously.

Sticks out his hand in an awkward way and says; "Hi, I'm Martin, a friend of Hálwen. You're a flatmate? Obviously, duhhh, draped in only a towel."

"Flatmate?" The half naked sculptor says with a bored look on his handsome face.

He then sighs and walks out of the kitchen, one look over his shoulders - from my feet to my chest.

"See you around, flatmate..."

And he's gone.
Leaving me flushed, and Martin still standing with his untouched outstretched hand.

He whispers. "What a gorgeous guy! Was I interrupting something? You never told me..."
"Shut up." I continue making the tea, inwardly shaking.

The sculptor; part 2

The air seems so thin and my feet won't listen to my inner plea to walk away in total silence. But I cannot turn, or revert my eyes.

He is standing on his knees, supporting himself with one arm on the girder of the low ceiling while his other hand holds her hip. Sweat sparkles on his smooth chest, his full bush of armpit hair, wet, adorning the soft skin under his arm.  He leans his cheek against the muscled bicep, closing his eyes for a moment. His curved lips slightly apart, showing a hint of his teeth.

A broad yet delicate hand firmly grabs the creamy flesh of the girl, then sliding slowly to her mount - making her pant even more loudly.

I swallow and let go of my breath I appear to have been holding all the time. I make an involuntary soft gasping sound.

He looks up and I'm sure he must see me through the crack of the door, but he continues to screw himself into the beautiful girl.
Esther.
Suddenly I know her name. Esther.

With the one hand he was holding himself upright he now wipes away the wet wavy hair from his face.
Yes. He does see me.
Why can't I leave?
I press my forehead against the post of the door. Sweat on my upper lip. I taste it with my tongue.
He now grabs the girl's hips with both hands, his movements a faster tempo.

And as his eyes won't leave mine, his mouth begins to twist and with a thundering roar he seems to explode into her.

Finally my feet seem to obey, I turn and run away. Through the narrow corridor, down the stairs.
I imagine I hear his laughter following me.

I slam the door behind me.

And while I sink on my bed, clasping my teddy bear, I start to giggle hysterically.

"OMG, OMG!" I keep repeating.

The image of the sculptor, the beautiful wicked sculptor, and the perfect goddess doesn't leave my retina for a while. But slowly I become calmer, my breathing deeper.

I get up from the bed. Walk to my large table. Get a paper and some charcoal and I start drawing. Drawing what I just saw.

I am busy for hours. I put on some music. Roll a joint. Smoke a bit, while I look out of my window. See the people of this small town pass by, doing their groceries. Doing their business. And then I see Martin. He waves. Holds up a bottle of wine and a little bouquet of flowers. He turns into the small alley that leads to my house.
Minutes later he knocks on my door.

"Christ! What have you been doing!" Exclaims Martin while he scans the drawings I pinned on my wall.
"You have been so productive!"
"Yes, I made them today." I say bashfully.
"They are amazing. Crude but so full of passion. Who are these models?"
"Oh, just...hey, thanks for the flowers." I change subject.
"I also brought cake."

"That's great." I say. "I'll put on some water. Be back in a second."

I go to the shared kitchen to put a kettle on. I open the cupboard and get out some tea cups. But while I do so I curse under my breath, because obviously someone has been using them and put them back dirty.

A soft but deep voice from very close behind me makes me jump and almost drop the cups.

"Well - well, my feisty little vixen. So we are house mates."

When I turn I see the brooding sculptor. Adorned in only a bathing towel. Leaning against the counter, his eyes squinted under his furrowed brows and on his sculpted mouth a crooked faun-like smile. His long curls still wet from the shower and I can smell the faint scent of cedar and cloves on his lean all but naked body.

Suddenly I feel scared.

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'.