“What are you sketching?”
I flip open my pad—naturally, it’s to the wrong page. There’s already a sketch on that page, but before I can flip it to the next blank page, she stops me, angling the paper so she can look at it. “Whoa, you drew that? It’s so good.”
I look down at the hand I’ve drawn. It’s one of my quicker sketches—from memory instead of a sitting model. It’s a strength of mine. In those few formal art classes that I did take, all I needed was to study the model for a few minutes from several different angles. Afterward, I could bring up the picture in my mind whenever I needed. It allowed me to take my time with my renderings.
“Whose hand is this? Every single detail is so…” Then she holds up her hand and positions it next to the drawing. I figure she’s guessing right now that she is the model.
“This is my hand?”
“Well…” I’m not sure how she will take that, so I don’t answer.
She points to the middle finger in the drawing, noting the chipped nail. “I chipped that the other day…the day I went to your house. When did you draw this?”
“This morning.”
She sits up, hunching over the drawing while tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear. And now I can’t take my eyes off that ear…the shape, the texture. It looks soft and delicate like the rest of her. I’ll draw that ear next.
“How the hell did you do that, Wil? It’s such a minute detail for you to remember.”
“When I’m in the right frame of mind, I can recall anything I see. If I concentrate, I can see the details, too.”
She’s shaking her head as if she doesn’t believe me. I swallow, my throat feeling tight. She’ll challenge me, call me a liar.
“That’s just…unbelievable.”
I blink. “It’s true.”
She looks at me sideways again. “Yeah, I believe you, William. That’s just so fascinating. Amazing, really. I wish I could do that. My memories of some things seem to fade so easily. Things I wish I could remember better.”
“Like what?”
She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth to bite it. Her lips are light pink and a little shiny from the product she’s put there. It occurs to me that I’d like to know what it feels like to press my lips against hers. I’ve never wanted to kiss a woman as much as I want to kiss Jenna.
Tonight. When we are alone. I’m going to kiss her.
I can’t dwell on it, though, because then I’d actually be tempted to do it now instead of later. “What would you like to remember better?” I repeat the question.
She shrugs, looking away. Her leg is bouncing up and down in place. “My father.”
“You haven’t seen him in a long time?”
She licks her lips and brushes her hand across her jeans as if to remove something that isn’t there. “Twenty years. He died in the war.”
“And you were…small.”
“I was five when I last saw him. Before we left to come to the US.”
This troubles me. I’d be very, very sad if my dad was dead. He’s a great dad—an excellent man. I’m suddenly lost in these miserable emotions, dreading the possibility of losing him. What must that be like to lose your dad? My dad…I’m lucky to have him. His brother died young. What if he died?
“I’ve depressed you. See…I should never talk about my childhood. It’s a depressing subject.”
I frown. “You grew up in a war. You can’t help that it’s a depressing subject.”
She clears her throat and bounces her knee some more before focusing on my sketchpad again. “So, back to the sketch…why did you draw my hand? It’s not a particularly remarkable hand.”
I trace the lines of the drawing, taking care not to smudge the pencil marks. “Your wrists…they look delicate, but they’re strong. Look here—” On my drawing, I point to the bump on the top of the outer wrist. “You have a prominent ulnar styloid, but a very thin distal radial-ulnar joint. And here—”
“You know the whole anatomy?”
I nod. “I draw people…it’s necessary to understand anatomy.”
“Wow, I bet Mia uses you as a study partner for medical school, doesn’t she?”
“Sometimes. But my knowledge does not need to extend as deeply as hers.”
She pushes back her long sleeve to study her wrist, then glances at the drawing as if comparing the two. “I would never have thought in a million years that my wrists are remarkable.”
“Well, you won’t live for a million years so—”
She holds up a hand, laughing, and I realize I did my usual. “Sorry, I wasn’t being literal again. It just means I’m surprised.”
I flip the page to a blank one and begin to sketch as we talk. I’m choosing a safer subject to draw this time—the scoreboard that hangs centered over the ice rink. For a while, this helps. With Jenna beside me, I make it through the rest of the time that people file in—past us in our row, in the seats in front of us and behind—and even to the introduction of the players as they skate onto the ice when their jersey numbers and names are being called. I’m okay as long as I can focus on my pad and only look up occasionally.
It’s harder to block out the bright lights, the smell of food, the sound of feet shuffling all around us. It’s loud and Jenna has to lean close when she wants to tell me anything. I want her to keep doing it though. I like the way it feels when her hair brushes against my cheek. I like how she smells tonight… like rain on grass. Like ripe pears.
But after a while, it’s too hard—and the arena too dark—to concentrate on my sketchpad, so I’m forced to tuck it away in my back pocket. The noise is distracting and so is the presence of the crowd. It feels like ants crawling across my skin. I rub my hands along my thighs to calm myself, but that’s not working either.
Jenna, however, is keeping a close watch on me. She leans over again and says, “You okay?”
“Um…”
“Feeling a little…pickles?”
Her phrase is complete nonsense, but I remember that’s because it’s our code. So I nod. “Yes. Pickles. Sour dill pickles.”
Her brows rise. “We don’t want sour dill pickles. I, um, have an idea. Maybe it will help you take your mind off of things so you can watch the game.”