Chapter Text
You take off your sweater, your pants, your shirt, your underwear. Neatly fold them and let them rest on the beige chair on the corner. The room is a perfect square, small and packed. A table, too many documents and papers, an orange lamp. No windows, just fluorescent light. It would be hell to work there. You grab the robe hanging on the shelf next to you, put it on, a loose knot on your waistline. You pull your hair out, take a sip of water, leave the room.
The class is about to start, students walk in, take their sits, organize their material. Thirteen blank canvases rest on easels, forming a semicircle around the round stage. You stretch your muscles. Arms, legs, back, neck. It’s 9 a.m. sharp, the professor walks to you, asks if you’re ready to start. You nod your head yes, lose the robes, lie on the red sofa. One foot on the ground, your legs slightly spread. One hand rests on your stomach, the other on your chest. Your head tilts to the side, facing the semicircle of students observing you. You look past them, to the opposite wall, take a deep breath. The professor orders them to start and you hear pencils and brushes sliding through canvases and filling the blank space with your form.
You have taken this gig a few times now. Nudity wasn’t something you were uncomfortable with. It was actually relaxing, being able to bare yourself to a room full of strangers and just get to be you, to be completely exposed and accepted. The hard part was standing still for the duration of class, but it was a good test of focus and control, things you lacked in your life. That art class was the perfect place to practice both.
Thirty minutes in and you felt sleepy. You didn’t get to sleep much last night because of the temporary bartender job you got that month. Not many auditions going on, just that one for a play you really liked. At least you had time to prepare. You resist the urge to yawn and feel the need to blink a few times, your eyes feel dry, sandlike. You let your gaze fall to the student in the very center. A brown skinned beauty, her hair falling in black curls around her shoulders, eyes scanning your thighs as she tried to replicate them on the canvas. To her right, another girl. Too short for you to see anything except her long skirt with red flowers falling down her seat. Your gaze returned to the center again, afraid the professor would notice your eyes travelling the room.
But you were growing impatient. You looked to the curl haired student's left. A very tall, pale and black haired man observed you intensely. He would go from your face to the canvas, pure passion on his movements. You could notice he really enjoyed doing it. If you were a bit more modest, you could even blush at the intensity of his eyes upon you, how they seemed to undress you even though you were already naked. You wet your lips, return to the same expression as before, fighting not to let your curiosity transpire. You wanted to return your focus to the wall, to that same red stain above the curtains you were staring for the past hour. But you just couldn’t let go of the hold of his gaze.
Suddenly, you were extremely conscious of your entire body. Of every piece of skin, every sore muscle, every stretch mark, every lump of fat, every unshaved body hair, every freckle, every scar, every curve. You were conscious he could see it. Everything. Your beauty, your body, your whole being. And it felt oddly amazing.
.
.
.
You were back to the little squared office, shoving the white robe back to your shoulder bag. You drank some water, grabbed a granola bar, opened the door.
“Same time again next week?” The professor asked you, handing you an envelope with the amount agreed for the two hours.
“I’ll be here.” You put the envelope on your bag. “Have a nice day.”
As you passed the door, you tried to use more of that focus you were exercising and not look back to see his canvas. Two more bites and you finished your granola bar, walk to the trash to throw away the empty plastic pack. You walk to the parking lot outside the building. You’re five minutes late to the anthropology class, all the way across the campus. You stop at the end of the external stairs to look for your car keys. He’s leaning against the metal handrail, cigarette on his lips, hot cup of coffee on his hand. The cold wind is messing up his hair, he takes a drag, watching you.
“Do you need help?” He’s so casual it almost annoys you; robe, three books and your bottle of water out of the way, you try to balance them on your arm, your keys lost on the black hole that is your bag.
“Your hands are full.” You barely look at him from under your hair, falling to your face. He rests the cup of coffee in one of the concrete steps, holds the cigarette between his teeth.
“They’re free now.”
You give up, give him your books, put your makeup bag on top of it, your hand reaching deep until it finds the metal bundle hiding on the right corner.
“Got it!” You shove your keys down your back pocket and clumsily return your items to the bag. “Thank you.”
He takes another drag, finishing up the cigarette and throws it away, gives your his hand, finger stained with paint and nicotine. “I’m Kylo”
You introduce yourself, shake his hand. “I need to go, I’m running late for class. Thanks for your help, Kylo.”
He nods, grabs his cup of coffee again and just stares at you. “See you next week”
You turn around, walk to your car. You can feel his eyes studying you, watching your every move. You grab the keys on your pocket, unlock your car, go to class, never pays attention. A disturbing lack of focus, all you can think about is his brown eyes looking into your soul. When night falls you had already stopped thinking about him. You change your clothes, drive to the bar, work. And a week goes by.
You’re late. You barely slept three hours that night, stayed up after work, studying the script. Auditions were this afternoon, you wanted it so bad. You apologize to the professor, rush to his office, undress. You don’t even bother with the robe this time, as the whole class was there, waiting. You lie on the red couch, same position as last week, take a deep breath. They instantly start to work. You don’t dare to look at him. Your eyes stare at the red stain above the curtains, your mind works fast, going through lines of dialogue. It was cold, but you ran all the way from your car to class, and your body had formed thousands of tiny beads of sweat all over your body. The AC breeze passed through you. You shiver and can feel goosebumps on your skin. From his seat, you watch him smile slightly. Damn him.
This time it was harder to stay awake or to focus at all and the two hours felt like twenty. You put your clothes back on, get the money, take the script off your bag and resume from where you left off. No anthropology class, just script studying. It was colder than last week and rainy. You decide to sit in your car and read the script. If you go home, you’ll probably fall asleep. You rehearse the lines, give yourself some notes, work on different expressions, memorize the whole thing. It’s lunch time. Four more hours until the audition. Your mind is exhausted, you feel confident on your talent, but your nerves are a complete mess.
You take the script to the little cafe not far from the building. Buy a sandwich, coffee and a chocolate bar. You take a table by the window, rub your eyes, try to stay awake. The sandwich is dry, but the chicken tastes kind of good. You look around the half busy place, he’s sitting a few tables away, completely oblivious to his surroundings. Forehead resting on his clenched fist, elbow on the table, a thick book getting all his attention. You sigh, try to think of something else. But the temptation gets harder and harder to avoid. You grab your cup of coffee, shove the script back inside your bag along with the chocolate bar and slide to the seat in front of him. His eyes slowly go from the yellowish pages to your dark-circles framed eyes.
“I need a cigarette.”
He smiles. Something about your request amuses him.
“Bad night?”
“What gave me away?”
“You seemed more distracted today.”
“And the dark circles surely don’t help.”
“They actually look cute on you.” He closes his book, reaches for his jacket pocket and offers you the open pack. You pick a cigarette and thank him, bag on your shoulder and get up.
“I’ll let you read your book.”
You go to the door, coffee on hand. You stand against the brick wall, hide from the thin rain under the canopy, take a sip of coffee and put the cigarette between your lips when you remember you don’t have a lighter. It’s like he reads your mind. Kylo stops next to you, cigarette on his lips, lighter on hand.
“I figured you’d need it” He said simply, lighting your cigarette and then his. You take a drag, feel the smoke filling your lungs and calming your nerves, then let it out your mouth, eyes closed, a cry of approval leaving your throat. “What’s making you so nervous?”
“I have an audition.” You open your eyes again, look at him. He’s so tall he’s half blocking the pale sun trying to emerge from the clouds, making a much appreciated shadow to protect your eyes.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine”
“I desperately need a win.”
“Do you know your lines?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know your character?”
You nod yes, taking another drag.
“Then you just follow your instincts and everything will be fine.”
“Is this what you do when you’re painting?”
“Mostly, yes. I just let my mind take me wherever it wants me to go.”
“Does it work?”
“Sometimes.” He admitted, you both laugh.
You feel yourself getting calmer, nicotine working its wonders. You finish your cigarettes and because it’s too cold, decide to get another coffee inside. You find out he’s a photographer, he asks you to show him your music. There’s something relaxing about his deep voice and the freckles on his face. You share the chocolate bar on your bag with him. He gives you his number, asks you to text him after your audition to tell him how it went. You say if it goes well, he should go to the bar and have a beer with you to celebrate. Before you know it the hours have passed and you’re almost late. He walks you to your car, wishes you good luck, tells you to follow your guts. Before you get inside, he presses his lips against yours, tells you you’re gonna do great. You get to the audition, the feeling of his lips kissing yours lingers. You try and channel that emotion. Kiss the other actor and think of him. Feed the director the lines, own the stage. When you leave the small theater, you have a great feeling about your performance. You go home, shower, take a nap. Wake up with the phone ringing. You’re called back to audition again. You type the text, your heart still beating fast, your veins overflowed with joy. How about that beer?