Page 56 of Fruit
“Donot,” I shout, laughing. He doesn’t stop, and I kick him hard in the thigh, close to precious goods.
“Oof.Careful!”
“Iwascareful. Next time it’s the balls, buddy.”
Sebastián lets go of my foot, and I stretch my legs over him again, smirking.
“Now I’m just going to stare at your pretty face and imagine you sweaty after a workout. Draw you like one of my French girls.”
“Great. Too bad I don’t have any drawing materials here. I mean, maybe a pen…”
“I do.”
He looks at me. “Really?”
I shrug. I’m not sure why I’d packed them. Because it’d felt wrong to leave them behind, or maybe because it’d felt right to bring them. “Yeah.”
“Well…I mean, if you were serious about drawing, you can.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Take your shirt off and start doing some push-ups. I’ll just be a sec.”
Sebastián rolls his eyes.
“Kidding. You sure, though?”
“I can just watch TV, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then yes, of course. Go get the stuff.”
I nod and return with my sketchbook and my coloured pencils. I bury my toes under Sebastián’s thigh as I sit back against the arm of the sofa, knees raised so I can lean the sketchbook on my thighs.
I feel a little hesitant at first, as if I’m being the one exposed instead of Sebastián. It’s like he can sense it, however, and he turns to the TV instead of asking me questions.
I draw him.
It’s not the first time his face blooms from my fingers, but I’ve never had him close enough to touch while it happened. He appears on the page, his profile cast in the blue, orange, green light of the TV. I draw the line of his throat, the relaxed curve of his shoulders, the shadows of his clothes. My gaze is another type of touch, stroking across the shapes of him.
When I finish, I resurface as if from a dream. Sebastián must have been paying more attention to me than I realised, because he turns to me as I put the pencils away.
“You done?” he asks. I nod. “Can I see?”
I hesitate for only a moment before handing the sketchbook over. He looks at the drawing for a long moment in silence. I feel like fidgeting, but I keep my hands still.
“Wow,” he says eventually, and I can feel myself blush. He looks at me. “This is amazing.”
I keep myself from squirming. “Thanks.”
“Iva, this is really good.”
“Thanks,” I say again.
“Are there more pictures?” he asks, tapping the sketchbook.
