An object for an hour, she
was used to being watched: admired,
feared; distracted by and studied.
But most of all drawn.
The sound of pencil on paper,
the raspy smudge of a thumb through graphite
or urgent rub of eraser, debris littering a lap –
these were her music while she sat,
poised and posed just
as the artists desired.
Then he came.
Eyes too eager watched her from then on:
her craft was affected. That easy calm
her limbs had before affected was gone
and her muscles could only tense,
hyper-aware of his intent gaze
extending past his rough meditation
on her image, roving over every part
of her naked body. His visual hunger,
this silent admiration that felt like fingertips,
stole the joy from her occupation,
but the artists loved it;
had never drawn such sketches
of her form.
So she held his gaze in return.