Page 56 of Crimson Desires

It took me fifteen minutes to confidently capture the portrait. I hadn’t rendered it much—but pencil studies were more about blocking and composition than anything else. Even though my details were minimal, the drawing was still fully recognizable.

“You done?” I asked Jack.

“Just about.”

Once he finished, we decided to show each other our artwork. We counted down from three. Then, we turned the paintings around.

I couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped me.

Jack released an exaggerated sigh of resignation. “I told you it would be bad.”

“You’re right. It is pretty bad,” I admitted.

It was clear that Jack had put effort forth in his drawing. He’d used his finger to smudge the graphite in an attempt to blend, and he’d more or less captured the essence of the painting that he was copying. But his proportions were off by a mile.

And the boobs he’d drawn were terrifying. They looked like two enormous, lumpy tumors hanging off the goddess’s body. One of them was substantially larger than the other. And don’t even get me started on the nipples.

“Anyways, forget my art. Aster, yours looks amazing,” Jack said. His eyes roved over my drawing, glittering as they examined it. “Did art school teach you how to draw like this, or were you born talented?”

My face warmed.

“I’ve always liked drawing. But to be honest, most of my skill comes from practice and studying.”

“Seriously, Aster. This is amazing,” Jack said. He folded his sketchbook closed. “You could’ve been a great artist. Actually, fuck that. You still can be a great artist.”

“Thanks. But I’m not sure if art is something I actually want to pursue at this point. At least not traditional art.”

“What other kinds of art exist?” Jack raised an eyebrow.

I shrugged. “Graphic design, illustration, tattoo art...”

“Interesting.” I could see the gears in Jack’s head turning. However, he apparently decided not to verbalize whatever it was that he was thinking.

We walked around the museum for a few more minutes, searching for another painting to draw. However, nothing stood out to us. Jack and I walked outside and sat down next to a long, rectangular pool. The weather was on the warmer side, but not oppressive. A nice breeze passed us, kissing my face.

Jack looked at me. Then toward his sketchbook.

“One more drawing?” he asked.

I caught his drift. Smirking, I said, “As long as you don’t draw my boobs like you drew the other ones, then fine.”

I pulled out my sketchbook as well, but Jack stopped me.

“I just want to draw you,” he said. “Sit still.”

Shrugging, I complied.

Jack stared at me, his eyes tracing my face and shoulders. I felt a bit awkward just sitting there while he attempted to draw me. Having Jack’s undivided attention felt strange. As much as I wanted to convince myself that he only saw me as a pretty face—it was clear that he was doing his best to see all of me.

After a few minutes, Jack told me that he was finished.

“Don’t be offended,” Jack warned. “I tried my best.”

I rolled my eyes, looking down at his sketchbook. I gasped as I took in his drawing.

It wasn’t good. He hadn’t magically improved in ability between this drawing and his first one. Yet, the portrait that he’d created of me was remarkably vulnerable.

It didn’t even really look like me to be honest. He’d made my nose a little too long, and he’d reduced my long, choppy hair to a mess of haphazard lines. But the girl that he drew somehow bore a better resemblance to me than my own mirror did.

---