The Art of Coffee Shop Sketching

I glanced up from my sketch book as she stopped in front of my table, her free hand tapping at the chair across from me.

“This seat open?” she asked, giving the words an upward lilt to suggest a question.  Brown hair fell in waves around sparkling hazel eyes.

I nodded, only briefly eyeing her, not wanting to lose my focus.  My pencil remained poised over my half-completed sketch, about to complete an important stroke.

I heard her pull back the chair, settle into it.  The corner of my eye caught her coffee cup as it landed on the table, only inches from my own.

I focused on my work, but when I next looked up, I saw her eyes observing me.

“You’re good at drawing?” she asked.

“Sketching,” I corrected.

“What’s the difference?”

A loaded question.  I handled it carefully.  “Drawing is a scene, a still object, capturing what it is.  Sketching is fast, in motion, capturing the sense of the object.”

She nodded, her hair bouncing in gentle waves around her face.  A pretty face, with those hazel eyes that caught my attention.  She smiled, and I noted the dimple on her left cheek.

I knew what question would come next.  It always did, at some point in the conversation.  Sometimes I would say no, sometimes yes.

Today, I pushed to get it out, instead of waiting for the conversation to meander its way there.

“You want me to sketch you, don’t you.”

A smile, quick but genuine.  A hand rose up to self-consciously push back a strand of hair behind her ear, although it immediately freed itself.  “If you’re willing,” she demurred.  Even as she brushed off the suggestion, however, I could see her leaning forward, showing her eagerness.

Why not?  I gave her a smile, a brief little smile, a secret between the two of us that she cautiously returned.  I flipped the page on my sketchpad, hefted my pencil.

For a long, indeterminate moment, I watched her, looking not at what she was, but her essence.  How can I describe the unspeakable in words, when I could show it, capture it, on the page with my pencil?  My pencil flew across the paper, sure lines joining each other.

Once I began, I worked quickly.  Rarely did I need to glance up at her; I held the image I wanted in my head, rushed feverishly to transfer it to the paper before it faded.  She leaned forward, grinning, but I kept the pad tilted away from her.

“Not yet,” I warned her.

“I want to see!” she teased me, but she sat back, waiting, pouting as those hazel eyes smiled at me.

My mind, wandering as my hand flew across the page, imagined our future together.  I saw the curves of her body, exposed and no longer hidden beneath her coat and garments.  I visualized as she arched her back, moaning in ecstasy as our bodies coupled together.  I saw those bright, hazel eyes shining at me, filled with love and devotion, as I pushed back the white veil that covered her head.

My hand ceased moving, and I smiled at my captured image.

I turned the page around, letting her see.

For a moment, there was silence.  I watched, feeling my lips quirking upward, as she stared at the page.  Her eyes widened, and then narrowed.  Her mouth dropped open, but no sound came out.

With a huff, she burst up from her chair, the motion explosive.  Those hazel eyes glared down at me, furious, as she snatched up her cup of coffee.

“Rude.  Unbelievable,” she grimaced, as she walked away.

I frowned, but said nothing as she stormed off.  I turned back my sketchbook, looking at the image.

A luscious, ripe pear, with such soft curves.  Despite the black and white starkness, I felt as though I could lift the fruit from the page, sink my teeth into its juicy flesh.  The swell of its bottom, the slight shading to suggest the breasts and buttocks… I felt myself waver on the edge of arousal.

The sense of her, her lusciousness, captured forever and bound to the prison of the paper.

I added a few more details, some cross-hatching, when I heard the tapping.

I glanced up from my sketch book as she stopped in front of my table, her free hand tapping at the chair across from me.

“This seat open?” she asked, giving the words an upward lilt to suggest a question.  Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, revealing bright blue eyes.

I nodded, only briefly eyeing her, not wanting to lose my focus…

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s