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My hand dabs the brush across hues of umber and vermilion, combining them, resulting in a brilliant color of sunlight at dawn. I paint a sensual curve along the rib of my human canvas, depicting his molecular composition with shades of reality. The image of the hydrogen element, a nucleus surrounded by a singular circling proton, comes to life with the stroke of my hand. I strategically position it next to the rendering of the carbon particle on Foster’s pectoral muscle.
Over the last couple of days, Foster and I have spent a fair amount of time together since neither of us have any school or work obligations—or family ones, for that matter. His company has been easy and fun. It’s almost like having a girlfriend over for a long visit while we do nothing, other than eat and hang out.
Well, there’s the sex, too. That’s one thing I don’t tend to partake in with girlfriends.
Today started out no different than any other. We lunched at a local Indian restaurant where we dined on curry and naan bread, and then we headed back to my place to explore each other’s bodies more intimately. Actually, we fucked each other hard and fast and then fell asleep, exhausted.
After awaking from a short nap, an impulsion took over, and Foster became my study. I began drawing a number of profiles of him in my sketchpad while he slumbered next to me.
My hands worked furiously—depicting the shape of his nose, cheeks, chin, mouth, and body—over and over again with graphite, shading the tiny details making up the uniqueness that is him. It was somewhat strange, drawing him for the first time. There was something almost second nature about it. His face was one I’d come to know in a private way over the past several weeks, and my hands were channeling that knowledge.
When Foster finally awoke, he caught me in the act of taking advantage of him as an unknown model. He wasn’t upset by my interest to use him as a study. We then got into a discussion about the human form, and Foster—being the science-drawn person that he is—went on a tangent about what really made up a person from a chemical standpoint. He discussed the more elemental aspects of human life, explaining that all people were essentially made up of the same thing, a scientific balance of elements. He taught me that oxygen made up about sixty-five percent of our bodies.
No surprise to me that we are all made of air.
Of course, I went the philosophical route, pinpointing that we were all made up of moments of our pasts and our environments.
At first, I let him jabber on about all the technical and mechanical parts of the world—like he often does—but the more I listened, the more fascinated I became. He was so fierce in his diatribe that I got swept up in his energetic storytelling and how he viewed life through the details of science. Foster then went one step further, showing me images from the Internet of what each element looked like in its raw form and how combining all those things with the right chemistry were able to make the person sitting in front of me.
Him.
The same chemistry that made me.
As he continued to talk, I grabbed the sketchpad and began to draw what he was describing. My hand couldn’t move fast enough as he raced through his knowledge, fueled by my interest. When I filled the last blank page in my art book, I handed it over to him and dug through my closet for a set of stored-away watercolors. I requested him to take off his shirt, which he did without question, and I began to paint his flesh with the transferred knowledge I had received in combination with my imagination. He continued to answer questions as I asked them while I attempted to create the masterpiece of what he was made of on the inside.
The elements of him.
Of life.
Of all of us.
Foster’s chest is now completely covered in watercolors, a collage of the many periodic elements that make a human being, streaming and connected together in a fluid symphony of color and design. I dip my brush into the ocher tint and begin to create another circle, one to depict sulfur, on his shoulder.
“You’re really into this,” Foster comments, remaining as still as possible.
“Shh…” I hush him. “I’m working.”
With the arm opposite of where the fresh paint is being applied, he places his glasses over his face and then turns the page in the sketchpad full of my previously created images, studying them. “I still can’t believe this is how you see science.”
“Why not?” I ask absently while creating the nucleus detail in a shade of purple.
“It’s all so…vivid.”
“Well, you made it sound very exciting. It’s your fault.”
“This can’t be from me,” he insists, showing me an orange-and-blue image of a carbon molecule drowning in darkness. “It’s too…exotic.”
“You doubt your passion. And it’s safe to say that you’re the driving force behind that one. All I did was channel it onto the page.”
He lays the pad back on the bed. “They’re really amazing. I’ve never seen anything like this, and I’ve been looking at the elements in many variations for most of my life. What you’ve done is beyond what my mind has seen, yet it is still so accurate.”
“Keep it then,” I say, blotting my brush on a nearby cloth. “You can have it.”
“I don’t want to take your things. These are too good for you to just give away.”
I lift my head, so my clear blue eyes meet his cobalt ones behind dark frames. “I have no use for those. Plus, you would love them more than me. They’re yours.”
I concentrate on the human mural, defining a few lines, while Foster sits patiently. He never complains about the coolness of the paint, the air, or any position I request for him to hold.
