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“Hey, honey, I have a question for you?” He pauses briefly. “Do you mind if I work when we get home? When the inspiration hits me, I find I’m more productive than trying to force it into a more convenient time.”
“You want to work with me around? I mean, you’d share that part of you?”
What we do as artists is so private, so personal sometimes, that I can’t create with others. But I think I could with Noah.
“I don’t know if it’s the fact that you’re an artist too, or that you’re just you, but yeah, and if you want to, I have that same paper you use on your water colors, and…”
“You bought the same paper? How did you know?”
I turn to his profile, a smile peeking out from his supple lips. “I asked Kate. She was able to figure it out with her voodoo magic.”
“You bought stuff for me to paint, in your space.” I’ve never felt closer to a man than I do now.
“Yeah, I want you to think of it as your space, too, Ash.”
And right then, I have a need to paint, just as he does. He’s sparked something inside of me, I can’t hold back.
* * *
Our art isas intimate as us making love. I stare at him in his studio, with charcoal in his hand.
Not only did Noah have my paper, he had every ingredient to make my own watercolors. He found out early on that my paints were my own creation, writing each color down like it’s a recipe for baking.
I start mixing colors together as an idea forms in my mind. I’ve set aside two pieces for my premiere, giving Kate a picture to sell today when we stopped by the studio.
The Oneearned me two thousand dollars. I placed the money in the bank. It's the first time I've had more than fifty dollars in savings. Noah pushes me. He may use me as his muse, but he'll always be mine.
After four colors are mixed, I take one of his extra sketch books he told me I could use, walking around his apartment, finding the best view, lighting, and illumination for the scene in my head. Do I include the natural light of the windows, or paint his brick wall in this piece? I move from the sitting area, looking over his studio, then back to where we made love under the windows almost four weeks ago.
Noah doesn’t ask me what I’m doing. He may look up from his sketch once in a while, but he’s lost in his own world, as I’m lost in mine. Plus, even if we don’t have the same process, he understandsI have a process.
I find comfort on the couch we never moved back to his sitting room and begin a simple sketch, including the curves of the banisters that follow the second and third levels of his loft. And with the vantage point, I start with simple strokes to give my mind more of an idea of what I want, and how to make it happen.
“Honey?” he calls from his art desk on the third level. “It’s four a.m., and I’m wiped. Ready to come to bed? If you’re not, it’s okay.”
“I’ll crawl into bed in a little while. Want me to wake you? And yes, that’s code for sex.”
His voice is groggy, and I look behind me. There’s charcoal all over his hands, and the bags under his eyes tell me the man has worked himself to exhaustion.
“No, just cuddle up next to me. I just want your body next to mine.”
I don’t hear another peep out of him, until his snores fill the silence. After creating my original sketch, which I’ll base everything off of, I crawl into bed next to him, draping my arm over his body, and it’s the last thing I remember.
* * *
Anytime I’min my classroom at the boys and girls club, gratification is what I feel. All these young kids have a place in my heart, and more than just as their art teacher. Many open up to me. I try to arrive an hour before class. It’s time I find is just as important as the lesson, if not more important.
Mrs. Bronte, the director of the center, pops her head into the classroom. “Hey, Ashton.”
Mrs. Bronte has a heart for these kids. She single-handedly built this facility from the ground up, raising money, finding a place where children would feel safe. “Mr. James’s background check is in. I look forward to seeing you two teach together. I can’t believe that such an accomplished artist wants to teach here.”
“He’s a good guy with a big heart,” I say in explanation. She’s aware that we’re a couple and wasn’t bothered in the least by our relationship. Mrs. Bronte doesn’t tolerate hate and developed this place as a safe haven for the LGBTQ community.
I’m taking inventory of our supplies. We’re running low, but I’m creative and have a lesson plan for each class, in spite of our supply issue.
“Ashton?” The male voice belongs to one of my students.
I look over my shoulder to Devin. His talent at the age of sixteen amazes me. Behind him are his brother and sister. There’s something about these kids. I see so much of myself in Devin, with his protective nature for Lainey and Collin, like I had for Tia at that age. But, his parents are neglectful, and I know their struggle is much harder than mine ever was. I had my mom, but they have no one but each other.
