CHAPTER IV
An hour later she was no longer in the chair but next to it, standing as she
posed. Her vulnerably bared shoulder blades and the palms of her hands were
pinned against the white wall. She'd pushed her shoulders up and rested her chin
on her right one as she looked downward, depicting a woman in passionate despair
or peril.
"There." Her brother held out the sketch for her to see, his lean, tattooed arm
now exposed since he'd removed his white, button-down shirt due to the musty
heat that had developed within his small bedroom of this old apartment. His
white tank top spotted with sweat, nonetheless.
"Oh, this is my favorite so far. I love this one. I look like Marylin Monroe.
Some old movie star."
"Yeah," he said unaffected as he lit another cigarette and rubbed the point of a
pencil on sand paper.
She continued to examine and admire the sketch she held in her hand, comparing
it and herself to the paintings and the women on his wall. She didn't ask him
why he wanted to draw her. Instead, she bravely sauntered over to the wall
itself and began flipping through the stacks so canvases, pulling out those that
interested her.
"Some of these have men in them, or at least parts of their bodies, such as
their arms. "Did you paint couples also?"
"No, of course not," he snapped.
"Then how-"
"I'm the men or man in the paintings. I used a Polaroid camera with a remote and
painted them based on the shots."
"...oh."
He stopped what he was doing and stared at the floor. Bringing his hand to his
eyes and squeezing them, he grimaced as if in some moral torment.
"Would you... would you be interested in doing that," he implored hesitantly.
"Yes, I would."
