The Naked Muse

4

4

“Mister Ambers, I don’t know if you remember me, but-…”

“Oh I remember…” Dean Ambers walked slowly and begrudgingly into a counter and poured himself a glass of water. He gulped the water as if he’d been out running in the desert, he poured another, then another. When he was done, he faced Robb Tate. He eyed him; studied his features. He does not remember him. “Come on.” He walked to a room without a door. The last afternoon light penetrating the faded carpet. “Sit.” He pointed to a stool.

“Just try and relax.”

He did as told. And soon enough, the artist went to rummage his charcoals. “Excuse me, Mister Ambers?”

“Look, I work with silence. If you want to get over this, sit still. It won’t take long. And the sun’s almost sleepy, I work best with natural light.” He was already annoyed and jumpy.

“I’m not sure I understand the circumstances.” Robb rose from the stool.

“Circumstances? You came here, obviously you’re one of the few men I’ve approached, and apparently the only one interested.” Annoyance was thick in his tone already.

“Can’t we talk this over first?” Dean took a step near the artist. The distance made him realize the striking cheekbones of the man opposite him. The artist sighed, the lines on his forehead visualizing. “I’m not really good with talking. But I do really well with charcoal and paint. That’s how I talk.”

Dean was immediately fascinated. This was very different from what he’s been introduced. Most agencies would observe him, even with clothes on, their eyes were designed to see through you. But the man opposite him was… complex. Different. Mysterious.

The artist started sketching. And Dean quietly complied with sitting on the stool. He could hear the strokes of the charcoal, they were loud and strong; it sounded as if the artist was fighting to visualize. “My name is Robb Tate, by the way.” The artist did not reply.

“This is quiet fascinating, Mister Ambers. I’ve been to a lot of scouting agencies… and frankly I wasn’t planning to come here-…”

“But you’re here.” He replied without breaking away from what he was doing.

Robb couldn’t help but smile. What made him come here?

“You have a very curious face, Robert.” The artist commented, his eyes fixed on his, and just before a connection was made, he broke and went back to sketching.

“It’s Robb… Thank you… why would it be curious?” He asked, struck by the word he used to describe him.

“If I told you you were handsome, that would be a very limiting word to describe you. Besides, I don’t need men with exotic eyes and hair, I need men who’ll make bystanders just curious enough to pay a couple of hundred bucks for that curiosity.” He said as a matter-of-factly.

“That’s… odd.”

The sketch was almost finished. The eyes were shaded lighly, the cheekbones sketched to perfection, the lips small and slightly parted. Dean took to observing the face, looking into the eyes that seem to be telling a story. Robb rose from the stool and walked behind the artist.

And Robb was astounded. It was a very different thing to be looking into a mirror and into a portrait of your face. Looking into your portrait was like looking into the depths of your soul. His eyes made from shades of charcoal made it seem like it was looking back at him. It was bold. It was dramatic. He wasn’t sure that he was able to be as curious as the shades of charcoal opposite him.

“It’s…” He stammered.

“Don’t…”

“Don’t what?” Robb asked.

“You’re the muse, you’re not supposed to say something. You’re supposed to sit still and be silent.” Robb knew that there was a hint of teasing in the artist’s voice. “You are very beautiful, Robert. I would like to paint you the next time you come by.” And then his eyes pierced him. They were like bullets, they hit you and they dig their way in, deep and painful. The connection was too intense. Instantly, he broke away.

“I… I’m not sure. How does this work?”

“I paint you. That’s how it works.” Dean Ambers smiled. And for a moment, Robb almost skipped a heartbeat. No… he came here to be a star, not to be someone’s muse for a painting no one would buy.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I think this is a mistake. I can’t… I’m sorry.” And he knew, he didn’t mean that apology.

Robb started to walk out of the room and Dean rose from his seat, his head bent. “I won’t be able to pay you now, but when the paintings sell, I’ll give you half.”

“I’m sorry mister Ambers. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

He was almost at the door when he heard the artist snicker behind him. “Then why’d you come here in the first place?”

“It was a mistake.”

“We both know it’s not. You saw the sketch, you liked it, you were drawn to it. You’re beautiful, Robert. And I want you to be my muse. You wouldn’t be here if you haven’t been desperate enough standing in line for agencies.”

And that was it. Anger started to fume inside him. How could he say he was beautiful? It hasn’t even been an hour since he’s been here.

“Just lend me your beauty, Robert.”

“No.” His tone was hard. “And it’s Robb.” And he slammed the door behind him. Leaving the artist dumbfounded with nothing but a face, shaded in light charcoal, and eyes that tell a story that even he couldn’t decipher.

~~

Sally was sleeping like an angel. Robb stood by the foot of her bed, eyeing her. For unspoken lovers like Robb and Sally, there was a connection between sleeping and watching. They both knew which one watched over the other on which night. It was a silent ritual, it was their roses and cups of coffee drank on a gloomy day.

He sat on the bed, his finger lightly touching her feet. She did not flinch. He rose and lightly walked out of the room. But he heard the ruffle of bed sheets and the ever familiar voice of Sally.

“Please don’t leave me…” Her voice was pleading… “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I know…” He slipped into the sheets and put his arms around her.

“I’ve been dreaming about it… and I hate it Robb, I hate it… Why can’t they go away?” Tears ran down her eyes. Robb’s arms tightened around her. He did not comfort her with words. He listened to her sobs instead. Women like Sally don’t need words, they need assurance. They need attention. They need to be understood.

And when she finally stopped, she looked into Robb’s eyes. They were the same eyes that lulled her to sleep a thousand nights.

“I love you, Robb.”

“I know.”

“Do you love me?”

He kissed her forehead and slipped out of the sheets. He tucked her in and stroked her hair. “You need to rest.”

“Goodnight.” She added.

But he was already walking out of the room. And her heart throbbed like they were crashing into a thousand pieces.