He pops his board up and twirls it once, garnering my attention. I crouch and take in the artwork on the underside of the board. I know it’s his because of the sketches I’ve seen. From the looks of it he doesn’t use any color -- just a black, thick marker.
The board’s covered in creatures – androgynous, creepy pixie-like things, a crying unicorn that’s been de-horned, and one voluptuous faerie. Swirls and descriptive words surround her curves – faire, heavenly, innocent, ravenous, raging, beautiful liar. There’s something sad about it I can’t put my finger on; I feel the same way about Masen. He has this intangible sorrow, and I find myself constantly leaning toward him to comfort him. But then I worry I’ll inadvertently hold his hand or stroke his hair. I don’t, though. He wouldn’t like that. He seems to like his space, so I give it to him.
“These are really good,” I offer before standing.
He shakes his head, his hair swinging out of his eyes, and looks down at his board. “They’re just doodles.” He’s so modest.
“No, it’s art. I like it. I think it says a lot about you.”
“Like what?”
“Mmm, you’re sort of a tortured artist, but you still have some hope and a love of all things voluptuous.”
He grins and points to his chest announcing, “Boy.” His expression is flirtatious, and it surprises me, a giggle escaping me before I can hold it back. I’m a dork. I don’t care. Masen is cute and just admitted he likes boobs. That calls for laughter.
Masen's Notebook Entry . . .
Chapter Playlist . . .
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