Eleven Eleven

by Micalea Smeltzer

“All right.” I open the sketchpad and lean back against the couch. “Just let me know if you need me to get naked so you can get the proportions correct.” Her jaw drops open and she sucks in a surprised breath. “Reid!” I laugh. “Sorry, I had to. But if you ever need a nude model for your personal art endeavors, I’m your guy.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” She averts her attention, like she’s afraid that if she looks at me, I’ll see something in her expression she doesn’t want to show me. Ah. It hits me then. I smirk. “You’ve already drawn me.” It’s a statement, not a question. “I … no.” But the way she says no sounds like a lie. I snap my fingers. “You have. What did you draw?” Curiosity is getting the best of me. What about me, my body, attracts her the most? “Reid,” she pleads, closing her eyes. “I want to know.” I’m begging now, but I don’t care. “Please.” She inhales deeply, her chest rising, and taps her fingers on her jean-covered thighs. “Your forearms.” Her eyes drift to where I’ve got my sleeves rolled up. “Your hands. Lips. The dimple in your cheek. Just … you.” Maybe it’s more innocent than the way I perceive it, but even so, I rejoice. Because she likes all of me.