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.