Styles of Expressionism H.S

28. Indiana

He glanced back at me after staring off out the window. "Why you do ask in such a way, as if it would be miserable for you?"

"Well I'm not exactly a supermodel," I replied in an obvious tone, moving my eyes off of his. "Whatever, let's just get this thing going."

He didn't say anything to that. He simply returned to his post behind the board and instructed me to adjust myself slightly with my breasts hidden behind my arms.

My mind was running over our conversation, which it often seemed inclined to. I never said the right thing in front of him. It was beginning to annoy me.

It was only minutes later-by that time I had forgotten he was painting me-that he said aloud, "I don't understand what you mean. 'You're not exactly a supermodel'?"

"Not every girl has the perfect body, Harry." I didn't quite know how else to put it. "I don't know how comfortable I am with each and every one of my flaws being put down on paper."

He adjusted the board so I could see his face to the side of it. He peered at me for a moment, thinking to himself.

"What is perfect," he asked, "to you?" His eyes settled back over the page as he worked, though he continued to share his deliberations. "I was thinking the other day, what is perfection, really?"

"Perfect is skinny, and to have big boobs and a thigh gap and all the other crazes going on." I spoke in a bitter tone; I thought it was a load of rubbish. There was such a thing as body types, and everyone's is different. I watched the way one of my friends tossed her life away in order to achieve perfection, and now she's in rehab. I spent my life having it thrown at me how achievable and important perfection was. I saw it in Vivian and my mother, but not in me.

"No," he said, shaking his head subtly at the paper. "What is perfection to you."

I furrowed my eyebrows, wanting to answer with the right thing this time. I thought deeply into his question. I liked people who were confident, flawed or not. "Someone who learns to be themselves, imperfections and all. Someone who has a passion for the essence of a person rather than their appearance. That's kind of perfect."

He chuckled under his breath, his eyes gliding between me and the page. It was a little strange to be stared at so openly, but I was getting used to it.

"I think that's a beautiful way of thinking," he murmured, meeting my eyes shortly. It caused me to smile slightly.

I dropped my gaze to the floor, thoughts regarding perfection swimming around my head.

"Then it's not completely true what they say, is it - that no one is perfect? Someone could be scarred and bruised and a little scratched, but they could be utterly perfect to one person and horrifically damaged to the next. It's only when you bring in a collective opinion that things get ugly. Perfection then, in itself, is a paradox rather than an impossibility."

"Do you want to know what I consider a beautiful paradox?" he said in a slow, careful voice, raising his paintbrush as he stared across at me.

I nodded faintly. My attention was grasped when he moved the board aside and I got a full view of him sitting there in an old pair of grey joggers, his upper body bare.

His voice was rasp and thick, sending a chill down my spine. "I find the small things about a girl stunning, the way the sun might catch in her eyes, or how her hair brushes off her shoulders in the wind - things that she doesn't notice." His eyes swept over me once before a small smirk flickered at his lips. "And you know she's truly beautiful when the sun and the breeze begin to remind you of her."

I didn't have any immediate reply to that. I kept quiet for a while before I found my voice. "I... that's an interesting way to see things, Harry."

He shrugged lightly. "It can be like putting a filter over a dull world."

"But the world's still dull, whether she filters it or not," I challenged him, sitting up a little more.

"Perhaps, but isn't that the point of life, sweetheart, to grow flowers out of the dirt?"

***

"If you're done, can I see?" I asked demurely. I carefully put my top back on, turned away from him.

"No. I don't show the models my work."

I frowned up at him. That made no sense at all. "I can't just have a peak?"

"No," he said firmly, borderline harshly if I didn't know him any better. I was sent a warning look that told me it would be a part of our rules.

I sighed softly to myself, simply gazing back at his hard expression. I preferred when his features were relaxed and his eyes calm. It better suited the serene aura that surrounded him when he wasn't trying to close himself off.

"So... what do you do with your models when they're no longer for good use?"

His vision turned to the painting in his hands. "You're free to do as you want for the rest of the day, Indiana."

Silence fell over us and I began to think about the other night when Harry let me watch Tarzan with him. He opened up a little, just a little. I liked what he showed me.

A loud knock cut through the air. I fell paralysed. It was impatient and demanding, beating against the door.

A wave of anxiety flooded through my thought system, my hands gripping to his duvet.

"You stay right here," Harry told me, his tone so stern that it made me jump. Whoever was on the other side of the door was not willing to wait. He grabbed at a shirt on his cupboard before he left the room and shut the door firmly behind himself.

I shouldn't have been so skittish at every knock. It could have been anyone.

My eye caught the art board, curiosity gradually clouding any previous thoughts. I hesitantly climbed off the bed and made my way around to see what he had done. I inhaled deeply through my nostrils, cocking my head to the side.

It was quite extraordinary, the way he had drawn green vines and pink flowers into my hair and wrapped them around my skin. I had a doe-eyed gaze, my lips parted slightly and my arms wrapped around myself. It was amazing how he could recreate that.

And then I saw it, the small vine and flower curling along my collar bone in place of the scar. It caused me to smile a lot more than it should have for such a tiny piece of the painting.

There was an artwork behind the board on his supply table, I noticed. I decided to be a bit snoopy and lifted up the board, glancing behind me to make sure I was in the clear.

My eyes set over the watercolour painting of his. It took me a while to make out the figure, but it seemed to be the black silhouette of a girl sitting on something, yellow stars shining from the windows behind her. There were glowing yellow marks trailing down her cheeks, like her tears were made of the same substance the stars were made of. I stared at the image for a while, wondering if the girl was somehow me.

He had been an insensitive asshole about that, and yet here he was painting it. It didn't connect up.

My eyes widened to hear a yell break through the apartment. A bone-chilling crack.

I dived at the door when I heard that the voice shouting wasn't Harry's.