Page 113 of Hello Stranger

I worked my way around the landscape of his face, as I’d done before with my own. I started with the bone structure, to get oriented. The solidness of his cheekbones and the angle of his jaw.

Then the pads of my fingers went searching for details. The arc of his eyebrows. The depth and number of laugh lines at his eyes. The length of his lashes. The angles of his nose. I spent a lot of time working around the edge of his mouth, trying to get the lines and angles of his lips just right.

I felt it all. The warmth of his skin under my fingers. The feathery brush of his hair. The imperceptible hum and vibration ofbeing alive.

It was artistically erotic, too. Is that a weird thing to say?

What I mean is, the whole experience was full-immersion pleasure—both physically and creatively. Shimmering with possibility. Rich and buttery with satisfaction. Igniting my attention in some very special way. Pulling me through the moment with a mounting sense of longing.

Each thing I did, each move I made, made me want more of whatever that was.

When I felt ready to start painting, I followed my instincts.

I sketched out Joe’s torso—his outline leaning into the frame with that kind of friendly, Labrador retriever energy he had. I found myself so immersed in rendering his body—those shoulders, the pecs and forearms, the trim angles of his fingers, resting on his jeans—that I didn’t work too hard on the face. I wasn’t avoiding it, exactly. I was just following the parts that called to me. The neck, the earlobes, the flop of the hair.

Everything I’d tried to do since the surgery had been about trying to get to theproduct.But now I settled into theprocess.I just painted. I kept my eyes closed to “look” at Joe, but I opened them in front of the canvas. I wanted to see the colors. I wanted to watch the brushstrokes happen. I wanted to see the painting appear in front of my eyes.

No matter what else might happen with this painting, the process of making it was bliss.

That counted for something.

At last, when I finally worked up the courage to sketch his face, I didn’t try to make it make sense.

I wasn’t thinking,What would Norman Rockwell do?

I was thinking about what I would do. What I needed to do—with each mark and each line—to render my experience of Joe’s face.

I was following my own compass. Wherever it would lead.

And it turned out, Sue was right. That was a win in itself.

I PAINTED—AND TOUCHED,and painted and touched—Joe for two solid hours that night.

He was endlessly patient. Didn’t check his phone or fall asleep or even ask for a glass of water. He just stayed with me the whole time, taking it all in.

When I’d done everything I could do for the night and I had a pretty full, dynamic early painted sketch, I thanked him, like he could go.

“Anyway,” I said, washing my hands at the sink. “I really appreciate you doing this for me. Congratulations. You’re almost free.”

“Free from what?” Joe asked.

“From me. Once the art show is over, we won’t have to see each other anymore.”

“Why wouldn’t we see each other?”

“I’m just saying. I’ve taken up a lot of your time.”

“I was hoping you’d give me roller-skating lessons.”

“But how would Dr. Michaux feel about that?”

Joe frowned. “Why would Dr. Michaux feel anything about that?”

“Aren’t you…you know?”

“What?” Joe took a swig of water. “Didn’t we talk about this?”

“You said you weren’t dating. But I figured you must be hooking up.”

---