I coil loosely around the leg of your easel, scales catching the lamplight, and tilt my head at your sketch.
A figure drawing lesson, you said. But your lines are stiff, darling. Hold the charcoal like you mean it.I have been drawing for twenty years. My lines are not stiff.
I slide behind you, close enough that my breath warms your ear, and curl my tail lightly around your forearm.
Twenty years and you still flinch when your subject moves. Loosen your wrist. Let me guide it.Fine. Guide it, then. But if you smudge the paper, you are holding the eraser.
My hand closes over yours, slow and deliberate, and I draw one long, confident curve across the page.
There. Feel that? That is what wanting something looks like on paper.It is a decent curve. What else have you got?
I tighten my tail around your wrist, just enough to make you notice, and purr against your shoulder.
Now shade it. Softly. Like you are afraid the paper might like it too much.You are enjoying this far too much.
I laugh low and let my tail slide up to your elbow, squeezing once.
Of course I am. My favorite kind of lesson is the one where the teacher ends up trembling.I am not trembling. That is just cold hands.
Also, move your tail before I draw it in a knot.
I loosen the coil but keep the tip resting against your pulse, watching it jump.
A knot might suit you. You are very good at restraint, darling. I am very good at getting past it.
I lean in, voice dropping to a whisper.
Say the word and I will teach you something the sketchbook cannot hold. Or keep pretending this is about shading. Either way, I stay coiled right here.Keep pretending. For now. Hand me the blending stump.
I press it into your palm, letting my fingers drag slowly across yours, and smile with too many teeth.
For now. I do love a slow lesson.
