Short Stories - Chapter 26: Chapter 26

If someone asked me what I had done in the last hour, I wouldn't be able to tell them.
I wasn't drunk; I'd yet to make it through the White Claw some guy had shoved against my chest the moment I reached the tailgate. But I felt as if I'd been stumbling through a fog ever since Mack dragged me out here, and the faces, jokes, cheers, and games that had flown by me were an indistinct blur. People were smiling at me, greeting me, clapping me on the back, so I returned their smiles and joined in on their laughter. I vaguely remembered being absorbed into a group of guys I knew and having blue stripes slicked across my cheeks. At some point, one of them introduced me to a pretty girl wearing a tiny blue Whitman shirt and an even tinier gold skirt, and I must have entertained her enough, because she was still on my arm now. Mack was nowhere to be seen, but that was expected of him -- he was the kind of guy who knew everyone, and it was impossible to keep track of him at parties.
By the time the girl -- Haley -- and I made it into the stadium, I was thinking about snagging the apple-juice bottle in her handbag (she had whisper-yelled to me that it was filled with Jack Daniels) and making a run for it. The noise from the stands was already giving me a headache and the game hadn't even started yet. Every time a drunken boy pushed past me, my skin crawled at the feeling of his damp shirt sliding against my arm. And the lights, the stadium lights, had they always been so bright?
An arm around my shoulder jostled me, and I turned, pushing a grin, to see the familiar face of my old friend Dennis.
"Look who I found!" Mack was all-smiles and already slurring his words.
"Santos!" Dennis cried, and I got the feeling he was holding onto me for support more than comradery. "Long time no see, man!"
"You're pretty bold, hanging around this side of the stands in red and black," I said, giving him a playful nudge (off of me). The Whitman-Carvell rivalry wasn't something to take lightly.
"Like I'm scared," Dennis scoffed, flexing his biceps. Long gone was the wiry, nervous kid I had met freshman year. "Maybe you should be, though. You're looking a little skinny, man. You been keeping up with the gym?"
Yeah, no, I wanted to leave.
"Oh, and what's this I hear about you ditching the house?"
Like, right now.
But I couldn't. I was stuck balancing my attention between Dennis, whose idea of catching up was interrogating me about everything that had changed; Haley, who kept tripping over her drunken feet and giggling when I caught her; and Mack, who was trying to get me engaged in trash-talking the Carvell team.
Somewhere at the back of my mind, it occured to me that I had missed Dennis, despite his probing. His sly comments were just as funny now as they had been two years ago, and the pride in his eyes when I told him how far I'd come in my studies was genuine. Somewhere, I recognized that Haley was incredibly sweet when she wasn't falling over, and would probably make for a good time sober. Somewhere, I acknowledged how amusing the smack-talk showdown between Mack and Dennis was, and even thought up a few jabs myself.
Somewhere, or maybe once upon a time, this was a fun night. Good energy and high spirits. Fun people, new and old. A game that promised to be exciting.
But right here, right now, I was getting draged around, hazy-eyed. I was working on autopilot. This game was a memory I would fail to make. Mack was smiling at me, and I smiled back, and I just knew he was elated that I was here, elated that I was laughing and chatting and having a good time.
Maybe I should've felt guilty for disappointing him, but all I felt was a wave of relief when Dennis left to rejoin his school. I half-heartedly joined in on the cheering and booing as the game took off, until halftime was over and the smells of sweat and alcohol were too much, and the shouting and slapping and flirting were too loud, and forcing smiles was too hard. My cheeks were getting sore.
So when Haley asked me to hold her bag and disappeared with a pack of girls to go to the bathroom, I tucked her "apple juice" into my jacket and made a quick getaway after she returned, slipping from the stands during the distraction of a touchdown. Certainly not my proudest moment, but not my lowest, either.
I knew the stadium well enough to make my way to the grassy area behind the emergency exit, clutching the bottle in one hand and marvelling at how vastly different the temperature was here. My chest opened up like I hadn't breathed fresh air for days. Now that nobody was watching, I allowed my shoulders to sag. It wasn't quiet by any means -- on a game night like this, the noise of the stadium could be heard for several blocks -- but it was usually lonely enough.
There was someone already there when I arrived, though. Someone white, fluffy, and currently engaged in some serious zoomies. The dog slowed when it noticed my presence, watching me with dark eyes and trodding over to the outside wall of the stadium where its owner sat. Ezra must have heard it coming, because he reached out a hand as his dog approached, scratching behind its ear and fondly saying, "Tired already?"
The dog sat at attention, still watching me. It had a weirdly unnerving stare (like owner like dog, I guess). "Sorry, I think that's my fault," I said.
Ezra turned his head my way, glasses reflecting the stadium lights. "Ah, okay," he said, offering a small smile. "Appa knows he can relax when the harness is off, but I swear he can't help it sometimes."
"Appa," I repeated, chuckling at how fitting the name was. "That's sick."
"Isn't it?"
Looking at his friendly smile and his arm around his dog's neck, guilt from our last interaction gnawed at my chest, not for the first time. I had thought about it more over the last two days than I'd like to admit, regretfully remembering Mac's words about my alleged (apparent) snappiness. So instead of leaving him at peace like I probably should have, I said. "It's, uh, it's Alex. From your interview."
Ezra's hand paused midway down Appa's back. "Oh. Hi."
"Look, man, I'm sorry about the other day. That was way uncalled for. I was just-- I don't know. Sorry for being an ass."
Ezra shrugged. "S'alright. I was being nosy."
"You were just doing your project."
"Maybe."
The silence that settled was awkward and heavy. As I mulled over the right way to retreat, Ezra spoke up again. "I take it you're not feeling the game?"
"I stole a girl's bottle of jack and ran, so take that as you wish."
Ezra's laugh caught me off guard. He had a deep, smooth voice, the kind a person could float in, or float away on. But when he laughed -- really laughed, open-mouthed and smiling-- it was high pitched and airy, like he was the one floating away. "That's cold."
"Eh, I consider it a favor. She'd had enough."
"Hey, I don't blame you. My best friend's on the cheer team, I'm just here 'cause this is a big game for her. Can't stay for too long, though." He gestured to Appa. "Honestly, he handles the noise and the crowd better than I do, but I know he's overwhelmed, even if he doesn't show it." He pressed an affectionate kiss to the side of his dog's head, then patted the grass next to him, wordlessly saving me from my awkward hovering-from-a-distance.
"Oh, I don't wanna intrude . . ."
"I wouldn't invite you if you were."
It was a bit startling, but it was logic I couldn't argue, so I settled beside him with a foot of space between us and nudged the not-apple-juice against his shoulder. "Down to share?"
"Oh, make no mistake," Ezra said, taking and unscrewing the offered bottle. "I'm only using you for the alcohol."
My resounding chuckle turned into a full-out laugh at the face he made at the taste. "God," he grimaced.
We settled into silence. Ezra leaned his head against the wall, face upturned to catch the breeze, occasionally raising the bottle to his lips when I offered it to him. Appa eventually got used to my presence and scampered away, only to return with a stick secured in his mouth. I tossed it across the grass, grinning every time he approached me with his madly wagging tail and dropped the stick at my feet. His fur was impossibly soft. I had never been a pet person, but I might've let slip a laugh or two when he licked at my chin.
Wordless as we were, I didn't notice the effect of the alcohol until my throws became sloppier and wobblier, my eyelids grew heavy, and the silence started to feel comfortable. I wasn't sure how long it had been, but only a third of the bottle was left when Ezra finally spoke up. "Hey."
"Yeah?"
He tilted his head sideways against the wall. "Nothing. Just hey."
"You're weird," I snickered, and he grinned.
A few minutes later, I said, "Ezra?"
"Hm?"
"Nothing."
That made him laugh again, that floating sound, leaning his head further back and saying, "You're not so bad, Alexander."
"Alexander?"
"Mhm," Ezra hummed. He turned his head toward me, and I got that unsettling feeling in my gut again. I wished he'd take off those shades. "It's a beautiful name, I don't know why everyone always shortens it. Do you mind if I call you that?"
I just stared at him a moment, lips parted as the alcohol swirled in my stomach. It was just a name, but he talked about it like it mattered. "I-- no," I said. "No, I don't mind."
He turned back to the sky and said, "Alexander, then."
"What are you studying?" I blurted, because I didn't want him to go silent again just yet. I liked his voice. I liked the way he said Alexander.
"'M majoring in creative writing and minoring in art."
"Oh, cool--" I started, then broke off, eyebrows furrowing.
The space between us was quiet as his words sank in. For the first time, I noticed the green paint stain on the shoulder of his oversized sweater. "You can ask, you know," he said after several seconds. He sounded amused, but it was hard to tell.
"I don't wanna imply that you have, uh . . ."
"Limitations?" he finished. Dropping his voice to a whisper, he said, "'M gonna tell you a secret, kay?"
He cupped a hand around his mouth, and I was too tipsy to consider that nobody was around as I eagerly leaned closer.
"I can't see," Ezra whispered.
I faked a gasp. "You don't say."
He nodded emphatically. "People act like I don't know I'm blind or something. Maybe it's 'cause of that stupid you can do whatever you want if you set your mind to it narrative everyone's always trying to push. I think that's bullshit, though. The world isn't mind over matter. I don't mind when you ask -- I want you to ask."
I felt sort of like I'd just had my head dunked underwater. People weren't normally so straightforward with me. It was refreshing, and absolutely startling, and all I did for a second was stare.
"So? Ask."
"Right. Um. How is that possible? You doing art."
Ezra grinned. "Why, I'm so glad you asked. I got lucky as hell, that's how."
". . . Lucky? Full story, go."
He leaned forward against his knees at the invitation like he couldn't wait to share. "I learned I would go blind when I was five," he began. I felt a drop in the pit of my stomach; five was so young to hear such bad news. "I had these thick glasses all my life, but they told me glasses wouldn't help by the time I was fourteen. That was lucky — a lot of people never get that kind of heads up. Thing is, the blurry vision didn't get all that bad til' I was seventeen, and the black spots only started taking over when I was eighteen. I got so much extra time."
Ezra paused as Appa crowded into his space, prodding at his knees until he stretched his legs out and gave him somewhere to rest his head. "So damn lucky. I would paint with the lights out, or with a blindfold. I would look at something for a minute, then wait a few hours and try to draw it. I taught myself to see and paint with touch and remember images long after I'd seen them. I've had all my life to train for this."
I tried to imagine how that was possible. To see with touch. I wasn't sure I could draw a circle with my eyes closed.
Or open, for that matter.
"That must have been exhausting."
"It was exhilarating." I heard the smile in his voice before I saw it. "I was god-awful for a while."
"And . . . you liked that?"
"Of course! I was so good with my eyes open, but the second I closed them, I couldn't do shit. And god, what's better than that?" His subdued smile had stretched across his cheeks, and I noticed that he spoke with his hands when he got excited. His voice changed, too — not louder, exactly, but higher and a bit breathier. "Than knowing you're useless at something, knowing you have to get better, knowing what the goal is and doing everything you can to reach it. The deadline was terrifying, but that just meant I worked my ass off until I was fourteen and never stopped, knowing I could run out of time any day. I like a challenge, Alexander. I like knowing I can make myself better."
He stopped talking and it occured to me that it was my turn to speak, but what was I supposed to say? I wasn't totally certain I was meant to exist in the same space as him. Not when he was so inspired, and I was . . .
"Can I see? Your art, I mean."
The enthusiastic smile faltered on Ezra's face, and his shoulder edged away from mine. I hadn't even realized we were touching until I felt the coldness in his absence. Laughing noncommitally, he said, "You probably shouldn't waste your time."
My eyebrows drew together. "Waste my time?"
"I'll always love art," he said, the shine gone from his voice. "Doesn't mean I make anything worthwhile anymore." He gestured to his eyes, still laughing softly as he said it, but it wasn't very convincing, and now I was feeling cold all over, because he was terrible at faking a smile.
The sudden energy shift didn't suit him, and I wondered if those words were his or someone else's.
I started to tell him I didn't believe that, but I stopped myself short. "Okay, fine," I said instead. It's not like I know shit about art anyways."
Ezra didn't say anything. He fidgeted with the sleeves of his sweater, tugging them past his fingertips. There was no way for me to know what he was thinking. Those goddamned sunglasses.
"I don't have any expectations," I added.
Ezra hesitated, and I watched hopefully as he chewed on his bottom lip. Hope turned to dismay when he grasped Appa's harness. I didn't protest as he clicked it into place around his dog; I wouldn't push it, bad as I wanted to. I hardly knew the kid, and I hadn't exactly opened up to him when he'd gone digging.
Ezra stood, holding onto the leash. "Come on," he said, and it took me a moment to realize he was talking to me.
I wordlessly followed him away from the stadium, scared I might say something that would change his mind. The campus was large, and the walk was long. I was surprised when we approached the art department, and even more surprised when he brought out a set of keys and allowed me inside, down the hall, to a door.
It took him a few seconds to fumble the keys into the lock. When we finally stumbled through the door, I had to pause in the threshold for a moment to take it all in.
The room might've been spacious once, but the crowding easels, counters, shelves, and racks made it seem small. It was a mess, really -- there were tools and supplies everywhere, and nearly every inch of the four walls was covered with vastly different works of art, with little rhyme or reason dictating what went where. It was the exact sort of space one would expect an eccentric artist to occupy. And with no light but that of the moon and nearby streetlamps streaking through the row of wide windows, it was somehow at once eerie and romantic.
"This is . . . wow," I said, staring into the eyes of a sorrowful woman, then the mouth of a great beast, then the reflection of a boy's face in a melting mirror, then the shapes of . . . a cluster of shapes. I really didn't know shit about art.
Ezra hummed his agreement. "I love coming here at night. It's quiet enough to think."
Appa trod over to a corner of the room and curled into a dog bed at the foot of an easel, upon which sat a half-finished painting of some blooming flower I wasn't sure actually existed. "You two must come here often. Whose room is this?"
"Professor Florence, one of the heads of the art department. It used to be a studio, but now they only use the renovated ones on the upper floors for classes, so she uses this place for . . . well, everything. She used to give me lessons when I was little, so I've known her forever. She's practically family. That's my side." He nodded in the direction Appa had gone. "All of the pieces on the far wall are mine."
"Talk about favoritism," I said. I'd meant it as a joke, but I wasn't all that focused on the delivery, too busy walking toward Ezra's small wall of work.
I had never doubted that he was good, exactly. But for god's sake, the guy was blind. It seemed impossible that the images on the wall, the sharp lines and delicate curves, could be his. Maybe Ezra was impossible.
More often than not, he opted for bold, curving, enrapturing images in the foreground, each with an array of stunningly bright, not necessarily realistic colors. Some were straightforward enough -- a giant, fiery bird descending on a mouse-sized lion, a dancing couple at a masquerade, a girl with butterflies in her hair. Others, I couldn't quite work out -- in the reflection of the melting mirror, the face of a boy seemed to be steaming, or dissolving, or materializing. I was too tipsy to think on it.
I couldn't remember ever giving a damn about art before, but I thought I could spend all day here, looking from piece to piece, trying to discern a meaning from each one if there was a meaning at all.
"You made all of this?" I was gaping, but I couldn't quite help it, and it wasn't like Ezra could see it. He must've heard it in my voice, though, because when I turned to look at him, his cheeks were tinged red in the moonlight. "Ezra, this is incredible. Like, actually insane."
It was probably the alcohol talking, but he was glowing with the praise. "It's really not," he argued. He sounded like he meant it, which made me itch to smack him.
"It really is," I insisted. "God, the colors you use . . ." I trailed off, reaching out to trace the shocking blue hem of a skipping -- fleeing -- flying girl's dress, only to think better of it and draw my fingers back at the last second.
Ezra stammered around a few words and then fell silent, sinking onto the stool in front of the easel with the half-finished painting like he couldn't bear the weight of the praise.
"You're so damn talented," I added for good measure, because it seemed like he genuinely didn't know, and that was a tragedy. "Is the stuff on the rack yours, too?"
With Ezra's go-ahead, I sifted through the paintings on the shelves behind the easel, tugging each out of its cotton sleeve in turn, handling them as carefully as I could. Ezra stayed on his stool, fidgeting with his fingers, and I didn't realize how quiet I'd been until he raised the bottle to his lips and took a large swig, as if the silence was too loud.
I tried to imagine how it must feel to sit and wait while someone pored over your work, unable to see their expressions, straining for some verbal hint of their reaction.
"Ezra, seriously," I said. He snapped his head up at the sound of my voice. "These are amazing. You're amazing. This is . . . I can't . . . woah." I was starting to regret those extra sips. Ezra apparently found my inability to form a sentence endearing, though, because he finally smiled again.
"Can I ask you something?"
He waved a dismissive hand. "You already know you can."
"Right." I cleared my throat. "So, why art? I mean, if you knew you were going to go blind, why pursue something like this?"
Ezra leaned his forearms onto his knees. "Pretty dumb, right? People have said my parents were cruel for telling me when I was so little, but I think it's the best thing they could've done for me. They used to always tell me to look closely at everything. Never stop appreciating the world around me. Burn everything I saw into my memory, so I'd never lose my grasp on the world. I don't think they thought that through all the way -- I mean, how can a little kid look that closely at his surroundings and not fall in love? We live in a fascinating world, you know, but we take it for granted. People don't really look around them. I did. And the best way I could think to burn what I saw into memory back then was to draw it."
I breathed a sigh, leaning closer to his words as if they were tangible things I could grab and keep. And really, I wished they were; if his voice was the kind you could float away on, then I was being carried on a cloud. "I'm jealous of you, you know. I wish I could be so passionate about something."
Ezra's head dipped to the side. "But you are. The story you told me, about the space documentary you saw when you were a kid."
For a second I was surprised, and maybe a little flattered, that he remembered that. But then I reminded myself it was part of his fucking assignment, of course he remembered. "Oh, was that part sincere enough for you?" I teased.
"It was, actually. Maybe the only sincere thing you told me."
He seemed to realize how that sounded, and he pressed a hand to his mouth. "Shit, sorry, that came out wrong."
His voice was so earnest, and my brain was so fuzzy, and he'd told me so much tonight. "I . . . yeah. It sounds silly, but that documentary sort of set the course for my life. The way I felt when I saw it . . . maybe it was the same way you felt when you were little. But I don't feel-- I'm not there anymore."
Slowly, Ezra nodded his head. "Then where are you?"
Where am I?
"I'm . . . I don't . . ." I gestured around uselessly, searching for words that wouldn't supply themselves. "I don't know. I can't say."
"Can you show me, then?"
I watched as he stood, wobbling a bit, and made his way toward the cabinets, running his fingers along the handles until he stopped at one. He crouched in front of me holding a wooden box filled with small tubes of paint.
"Not sure I can do the whole paint-my-feelings thing."
"Show me with color, Alexander."
I thought up a snide remark about how this all seemed very first-grade, but at the determined set to Ezra's lips, I bit my tongue and began sifting through the colors. According to the labels, they were oil paints, and I was briefly distracted by the small round dots protruding beneath the color names. He had clearly placed them there himself with paint, and it made me wonder just how many hoops he had to jump through.
The box held just about every color imaginable, and I could swear there was absolutely no difference between some of the shades. I took the search seriously, though, if only because Ezra seemed so intent. After a minute of looking, I had gathered four paints. The first was too pale -- I certainly didn't feel light. But the third was too dark, too sad. I wasn't sad, just . . .
"Portland Gray Medium," Ezra muttered after I'd handed him the middle shade.
"Yeah," I said, embarrassed at how quiet my voice came out. It wasn't anything, not really. I'd chosen a color from a basket. I hadn't put what it meant into words, and probably still couldn't. But it was the first time I'd admitted to anyone, even myself, how I'd been feeling. And I was pretty sure Ezra understood.
He didn't ask any questions. He sat there, turning the tube over in his hand, running his fingers over the pointy corners of the packaging and the dips where it had been squeezed.
I looked down at the fourth tube, still in my hand, and debated between sharing my thoughts and saving myself the mortification. It was a short debate -- I was too far gone to worry about saving face. "This one looks like you."
Ezra plucked it gently from my grasp and ran his thumb over the label. "Indanthrone Blue . . ." He read aloud, then hummed. "Lovely. I've always held a certain admiration for the smurfs."
The snort I let out was absolutely vile.
I continued looking through the paintings on the rack as Ezra lay back, trying and failing to balance Indanthrone Blue on his nose. By the time he gave up, I had laid three canvasses on the floor in front of myself. They were all portraits of a girl, and though they were different in many ways, they all looked somewhat like the same girl. She looked about my age, with dark brown skin and round cheeks and near-black eyes. Between the first picture and the last, her features became more specific -- more shadowed and defined, highlighted in more deliberate places.
"These portraits," I said, though I never finished, instead following the twisting, curling lines of a mass of dark hair, the sharp pinch of a cupid's bow atop full lips. After a few stunned minutes, I placed the paintings into their pouches, pausing when I noticed a sheet of print paper in the third one. Pulling it out revealed a photograph of a beautiful girl, one who looked shockingly similar to the third painting. There were clear differences, details and colors that didn't match up. But it was undoubtedly her. All I could manage was, "How?"
"Well for starters, I ask."
Dragging my gaze from the image of the girl, I stared at Ezra, dumbstruck. "You're unreal."
He blushed bright red again, and this time he didn't bother to argue. "I'm good with mental images," he said. He pulled four more canvasses from the shelf like he'd memorized their placement and showed me each one. Another series of portraits, this time of a round-faced young man with red hair and deep dimples. Once again, the photograph that came with the final portrait was a solid match.
"So you ask someone what they look like, and then you do . . ." I gestured frantically at the paintings, too tipsy to consider how useless it was. "This?"
Apparently that was funny. "No, no," Ezra said in between feathery laughs. "People are kind of like characters in a book for me. I can get the basic idea of what they look like -- skin color, hair texture, certain features -- but the rest is a matter of guessing. I like it that way."
"You like it that way."
He traced the raised lines of his own painting, the first one in the redhead boy's series. "I like using my imagination. And being proven wrong, it's the best feeling. Painting someone, and hearing them say that they look nothing like what I pictured . . . It's a challenge, and I told you I like challenges."
I struggled for something to say, but you're not like anybody I've ever met seemed a bit intense.
I took the bottle from Ezra's hands. The distraction of the burning in my gut helped me remember how to speak. "What would you ask me? If you wanted to paint me, I mean."
Ezra giggled -- fucking giggled -- at the slight slur of my words. He scooted closer, so that the tips of his sneakers touched my cris-crossed shins. He propped his elbow on his knees, lay his chin in his hands, and fixed me with a not-stare. "For starters, race?"
"Uh . . . blasian?"
"Is that a question?"
My cheeks felt hot. "Oh, um, no," I said, shifting my weight. My mom was black, my dad was Filipino, but race had become a weird thing. After spending two years immersed in Greek life, surrounded by subconsciously (and sometimes consciously) racist white fratboys, I learned not to talk about it. The straightforward, objective way Ezra asked was a stark one-eighty from what I was used to.
But then, Ezra wasn't a fratboy. I wasn't sure he was entirely white, either, what with the olivey-brown undertones of his skin.
"No," I said, more firmly this time.
Ezra nodded as if it was nothing, and it was sort of jarring to realize it was nothing. "Skin tone?"
"Brown."
"Very helpful," he snickered. When I didn't offer anything else, he suggested, "Would you say you have lighter skin? Golden undertones, maybe? Warmer or cooler tone?"
"I think I'm kinda, uh, medium? Sure, about the undertones, or whatever."
"That doesn't--" he started, then apparently decided not to bother. "Sure, okay. What color and texture is your hair, and how would you describe your body type?"
"Black, curly, and uh, athletic, I guess?"
"Volleyball, right?"
"Yeah."
"Eye color?"
Smirking, I said, "Green."
Ezra started to form his next question, then paused. I watched the slow curve of his mouth into a playful grin and felt the burn of the alcohol in my stomach again. "Liar."
The questions got more specific as they went, mostly focusing on facial features. It was weird, describing myself, but Ezra asked the questions unceremoniously, like bullet-points in a questionnaire. It felt less like describing myself and more like describing a picture. Which I guess I was, in a way.
By the time the questions had run out, Ezra's face was permanently flushed and my answers were entirely useless, dissolving into laughter more often than not. Ezra's hair had come almost entirely undone, falling into his face and sticking to his lips when he smiled. I chose to blame the alcohol for the way he leaned back when we'd finished, tucking his arms beneath his head against the tile, and said, "You sound . . . really damn cute."
I took a drink right as he said it, so it was perfectly reasonable to also blame the alcohol for the fire that curled and unwound in my stomach in the wake of those words.
"So you could paint me right now if you wanted to?"
"I don't think I could paint a triangle right now," Ezra scoffed, draping an arm across his face. "But normally I'd be making a sketch."
He gestured vaguely to what I assumed he thought was the first painting in the redhead's series. He wasn't particularly close, but I didn't have the heart to tell him. "The painting doesn't start 'til like, step four. And the final product, that's gotta be a lil' more hands on." He reached out and made grabby hands. "That's how I get the real stuff. When someone inspires me, and I wanna get their face right. Gotta feel it, all the dips 'n curves 'n such."
I looked at the final paintings of the black girl and the redhead boy, so similar to their respective photographs. Ezra could figure all of that out through touch. Unreal. "Isn't that uncomfortable?"
Ezra hummed. I was starting to notice he did that a lot. "Depends on the model. It's equivalent to posing, really. And I'm gentle about it; 's not like I dig my fingers into your face. Just get a feel around. Sound uncomfortable to you?"
I tried to imagine Ezra's fingers on my skin, feather-light, mapping out my features. A shiver inched down my spine, but it didn't feel like discomfort.
"I don't think so."
Ezra sat up at that, propping himself on his wrists to face me with a dopey smile. "Maybe I'll paint you someday, then. If I see you again."
My head did a funny thing, jumping back and forth (with considerable lag, alcohol be damned) between a sudden, tugging desire to be painted by this man and confusion over the second half of his statement. If?
Then I remembered that Ezra had finished his interview, and we'd only met tonight by chance, and this school had tens of thousands of students and no, we probably wouldn't run into each other again. It sounded way scarier than it should've, considering we had interacted a total of three times now (four if you counted that mortifying first encounter).
"Does that mean I inspire you?"
Ezra raised the bottle to his lips, but it was empty. Ignoring my question, he said, "Have lunch with me on Tuesday."
It took a beat for me to process what he'd said. He threw the empty bottle in my direction, grinning triumphantly at the sound of it bouncing off of my chest. I hardly noticed.
"Yeah, okay."