Page 33 of Memories of the Lost

She narrowed her eyes. “That happens to you all the time, doesn’t it?”

“Sometimes. Does it bother you?”

“No,” she answered, which was kind of a mistruth. “Well, I mean, I did it, too.”

“The difference,” he said quietly, holding her gaze and reaching for her hand, “is that I did it to you first.”

“Oh.” Light skated over the right side of him, illuminating the cheekbone, the straight nose, the edges of his lashes, the side of his throat. She itched to draw him, right now, in this moment. “Don’t move.” She pawed through her bag and came up with a Micron pen. Not her favorite, but it would do. She also brought out an Altoids tin of watercolors and a water-filled brush.

Luckily, the restaurant hadn’t yet done away with paper place mats, so she flipped hers over to the white side and started to draw. Again, it was a way to channel the sexual energy building in her body, as well as a way to capture his likeness for her future self. There was something so grounding about really looking at a thing, without judgment pro or con.

“When did you start drawing?” he asked, watching.

“I don’t remember,” she said. “As long as I’ve been alive, I’ve been drawing.”

“Cool.”

His head was quite oval, the hair thick but a fine texture, all the colors of wheat. The brow was high, and maybe one day he’d lose that beautiful hair, but who would care? His eyes were not large, but the color—so bright and blue—made them more powerful. She studied the shapes, paused, studied the light, the angle of his eyebrows. His nose was Roman straight, his mouth—

Her skin whispered. Maybe she would have to skim over his mouth, giving the shape of upper lip, the swell of the lower one, without dwelling too much.

“So fast,” he said.

“Lots of practice.” She added a few defining details, the edge of his collar, an earlobe, and opened the watercolor box. “You can move now.”

“That’s a clever little thing.”

“Yeah, I always carry it. Just in case.” She plucked off the lid of the water brush and squeezed a few drops into each of the hard colors. While they soaked in, she picked up her tea and pointed to his. “You should taste that.”

“Not a fan of iced tea, love. That’s an American thing. We all think you’re mad.”

“Try it.”

He picked up the glass and took a small sip, and his face changed. She drank deeply. The tea was the source of the cinnamon smell. It was orangey and very spicy and wildly refreshing. “They make it in-house.”

“I stand corrected. I like it. A lot.”

“You should always try the house specialties,” she said, and dipped her brush. “I’m sure you’ve learned that over the years.”

“Not really. I’m picky.”

She laughed. “Really?”

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

With easy swaths, she added color to the sketch, painting shadow on one side, highlights on the other, a little quinacridone magenta for his mouth, cerulean blue for his eyes.

“Oh my God,” the server said, approaching the table with plates of food. “That’s so good!”

Tillie smiled and moved the drawing aside to make room for the plates. The soup was steaming, the bread stuffed with crisp sprouts and perfect avocado. When her hands were free, Tillie gave the server the little watercolor. “It’s yours.”

“No way!” She gazed at it. “Will you sign it?”

“Sure.” Tillie scrawled her painterly name with a cat face up the side.

And paused. The cat had been part of her signature for years, and now she couldn’t remember why.

Shaking her head, she gave it back to the server.