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And yeah, the guy seemed awfully interested in watching Lindy leave. He started to slide out of the booth, but Diego cut him off. An excellent interception. The man settled back into his seat and Diego retrieved her portfolio and bag from the adjacent booth.
Now, Lindy seems different. No longer the super-confident seductress, that’s for sure. A shy, slightly awkward art major who can’t hold her booze very well.
It is interesting that there is more than one side to her. I wonder which one is more dominant? Is she an awkward nerd who took a chance and let the whiskey talk her into playing the vixen temporarily?
Or is she really the vixen, pretending to be awkward?
It’s hard to tell by looking at her right now. She seems a bit hungover and a little bit weary. She’s on the gawky side, that’s for sure, but there are moments where she seems to rise to the surface, ready to battle for whatever is on her mind.
I like that part better.
“I think you left this,” I explain, dragging her portfolio out and holding it toward her.
Her eyes widen. “Oh my gosh! Thank you! How did you… Oh. Well, thank you.”
“We were going to leave it at the café downstairs,” Trevor explains as though she was just about to accuse him of trying to steal it.
She reaches out and brushes the side of his arm with her fingertips. Well, that’s nice. She knows Trevor is not the thickest volume on the shelf, obviously.
“It was really sweet of you to bring it,” she smiles. “Actually, I would’ve been completely lost without it by tomorrow. You guys saved me a lot of stress!”
“Can we see what is in it?” I ask.
She startles. Her fingers drum against the leather clasp.
“Oh… I mean, I don’t know,” she mumbles.
I could feel the guys want to see. They are curious about her. Naturally, they all settle behind me to follow my lead. I don’t have to say it out loud. I know what they want, and they know I will try to get it for them. That is what a good leader does.
“You’re the only art major here,” I continue reasonably. “I am all up for collaborating, like the class description says, but I don’t have any great artistic ideas. Do you guys?”
I look around at my teammates. They all shake their heads helplessly.
“So you’re the expert,” I smile, until she smiles back. “Don’t you think?”
“Well, I guess so?” she agrees.
That is a fundamental rule of salesmanship. Getting them to say yes, even to the most simple questions. Once people start saying yes, they can’t help but continue. “We trust you completely,” I continue, feeling the guys nodding behind me. “Do you have any ideas? Suggestions?”
She shrugs one shoulder and shakes her head. “Well, to be honest, I’m here to get different perspectives, you know what I mean? Not just about me. Not justmywork.”
“We would still like to get to know your point of view,” I continue, not ready to let her go just yet. “Can we see what we are working with?”
She takes a sharp breath, looking at each of us in turn. I can almost see the girl she was last night. With the dreamy lights glowing around her wide cheekbones, her eyes half closed, letting the music slide through her body unabated, she was a different sort of animal.
Today, she is desperately trying to keep herself under wraps, but I can almost see the animal underneath. I can almost see the real woman in there, the one she is desperately trying not to let out.
Without a word, she stands up and begins to unzip the portfolio. She removes a large pad of paper and flips back the cover. Slowly, the guys and I walk up behind her, but what we see takes my breath away.
The drawings are magnificent. I mean, I have never seen anything like them outside of a book on drawings. Certainly not at any of the student gallery shows.
These are like photographs. But I hear that is an insult. They are not photographs; they are drawings. So sensitive, so detailed and touching, they make me… Feel things.
Not sure I like that.
Slowly she pulls back the next piece of paper, revealing a old man, seated, his eyes cast upward toward a light may be near the ceiling. I can almost see the moisture in his eyes, the years of exhaustion and determination in his finely wrinkled jowls. Even his mustache and beard are so wiry and fluffy that I practically want to touch them.
The next drawing is a young woman, and I recognize the bench she is sitting on in the quad. Dappled sunlight filters through the tree branches as she gazes at a screen, twisting a strand of hair around the tip of her index finger.
