"Body on my, losing all my innocence, yeah."

LOUD LUXURY | BODY

•

a a l i y a h

"I can't do this..." I heard myself whisper, and I clutched the fabric against my body as if it were escaping my grip. "Without a cigarette, I mean."

Octavio raised his eyebrows, startled at my sudden outburst. His mouth parted, searching for words to say, but instead he settled on shooting me an unexpected look. The kind of phony look you give someone when they tell you something they're not. Maybe it wasn't exactly like that, but that's definitely how I felt.

How is it that someone who signed up for nude modeling, doesn't want to get nude? That's exactly what I saw in his eyes as he blinked and looked back at his paper.

"Is smoking allowed in here?" I asked.

He rested his paintbrush on his stencil, and palmed his hands together. "Yeah, which I should probably stop allowing since I've been trying to quit for a while now."

Dragging a chair to the center of the room, I pulled a stick from my purse and lit it, blowing into the air. "Oh yeah? Me too."

He gestured to my cigarette with an airy laugh. "How's that going for you?" he teased.

"Pretty well, if you can tell," I retorted, my tone laced with sarcasm. "I don't know why it's so hard."

Octavio nodded and wet his lips, his ultramarine eyes watched me as I took a drag and returned the fumes back into the atmosphere. He clearly had more discipline than I did when it came to cutting off this toxic habit. Then again, I've always functioned poorly when it came to cutting anything toxic out of my life, especially men. Especially, Nick. Why did he have to reenter my life in every way, including my goddamn thoughts.

I flicked the filter.

"Cigarettes are engineered to make you want something it can't give you. I guess, we all want to unwind and smoking is branded to help you do that, but, it's only temporary and really, it just adds on another issue in our lives," Octavio said and cleared his throat.

Tilting my head, I shifted my gaze to the slope of his nose and down to his hands.

"Yet, we make permanent decisions based on temporary emotions," I added, calmly. Putting out my cigarette, I threw it into a nearby bin and breathed heavily as a newfound confidence surged through my body.

"Are you ready?" I asked him.

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, spreading his legs. "For?"

"To paint me," I mentioned, nonchalantly. Gripping the hemline of my shirt, I pulled it overhead and dropped it on the ground. Quickly, I gauged his response before unclasping my nude-colored lace bra and making a spot for it next to my blouse. My nipples instantly hardened when they came into contact with the cold breeze flowing through the studio.

Octavio tore off a large sheet of paper, grabbed a pencil, and began sketching. For a brief moment, I was overcome with an odd, ineffable feeling. It was like peeling the surface layer of an onion, exposing its most bare, compromising state. After many minutes of absolute silence, I found myself adjusting to this air of vulnerability.

He studied the curve of my c-cup breasts and my brown-pinkish dusted nipples. Sunlight danced on my chest, meshing the colors of my bare body with the rays of light that battled with my dark shadowed edges.

"Are you a performer?" he asked, refraining from drawing anything as he took a hard look at my eyes. A soft smile played on his lips.

Pushing a stubborn curl away from my face, I shook my head. "Why'd you think that?"

"Well, you're pretty confident, not afraid to say what's on your mind, and—and intense," he said. Even though he stuttered and used the word intense, he looked unsatisfied with his own word choice, but I guess I'd never know what else he had wanted to say.

"A dancer maybe," he added.

"I mean, I did dance for fourteen years but it's been five years since I've done ballet," I admitted. It was weird to put that out into the open and only now I realized how long I haven't mentioned that.

Most people assumed I was a dancer because of my upright posture, extended neck, and turned out feet when I walked. I have lived with enough indecision in my life to dip my toe into possibly every profession and hobby, but ballet and contemporary dance were immersed into my childhood and perpetuated all throughout my young adult years until I turned twenty.

"I can definitely see that in your structure, because I'm sure you know this but you have the figure of someone's who's done ballet," Octavio said.

"Sounds like you've painted a lot of ballerinas."

He chortled and rummaged through a bucket of pencils. "You can say that. It's just easier to get people who are in performing arts schools to participate in art modeling."

I couldn't imagine what girl wouldn't take up an offer from Octavio, he had to have been everybody's type, but then again I was very bias. He was probably the only straight man I could be topless in front of who wouldn't turn brain-dead after a second—him and my gynecologist.

After some back and forth chatter, we fell into another comfortable silence where all I could hear was the stroking of his pencil on the paper and the patter of light rain droplets hitting the window.

"So on a scale of one to ten how much am I disappointing you?" he joked with a grin. "You probably expected like sculptures and some painter wearing a beret."

I snorted. "Yeah, honestly I was really only looking forward to the beret and someone French-speaking. So I'd say this is a solid five-point five."

"You know some people actually get annoyed that I talk so much during one of these things," he admitted. "So, if I'm annoying don't be afraid to tell me to shut the fuck up."

A giggle slipped from between my lips, and I adamantly shook my head. "Don't worry, if you were annoying I would've without a doubt already had told you to shut the fuck up. In fact, I actually like that you're so talkative because it makes me feel... more comfortable I guess?"

"I don't wanna brag or anything, but I pride myself in having pretty good conversational skills," he remarked, satire thickening his voice.

"You do," I said.

"Good, because let's see if you can tolerate a coffee break with me." He flashed me a smile and carefully set down his art utensils.

"Oh, I don't do coffee."

"Uh, ok, tea? Water? A shot of vodka?" he teased. "I'm kidding."

I clothed myself again, basking in the warmth of the fabric and stood up to follow him into a little kitchen with dark cherry cabinets and counters. It only added to the rustic atmosphere of the studio, but I also knew that there was no way this place belonged to Octavio.

Octavio's fingers were dusted with black charcoal and graphite shavings. He washed it off and wiped his strong, thick hands.

I stood at the doorframe, watching as he shoved a coffee capsule into the Nespresso machine. It churned and buzzed, draining out a black liquid into his coffee mug.

Huh, he was left-handed.

"I think we're finished for today. I'm actually quite happy with it," he mentioned, looking back at me with a proud beam.

"How's it looking so far?" I asked him, softly.

"You look great, well uh, it looks good," he corrected himself.

"Yeah?"

"Hell yeah."

I chewed my lip, excited to see what he had been working so hard on for the past I don't know how long.

"Well, can I see it?" I asked.

Octavio shook his head, tight-lipped. "Nope," he popped the 'p.' So I'll keep in touch with you, and we can arrange times to meet next," he said, shoving his large hands into the back pockets of his paint-stained jeans.

"So you're seriously not going to let me have a sneak peek?"

Octavio shrugged. "What can I say? It's a sin to show incomplete artwork."

"Oh, come on," I pleaded.

"You'll thank me later." He wet his lips. "Trust me."

"Trust you? I don't even know you," I countered, trying to hide my disappointment.

"You might know me as Octavio," he played. "Octavio Castellano."

"Ha-ha-ha," I deadpanned and started a slow walk towards the front door of the studio. He followed behind.

"See you soon?" It rolled off his tongue so untroubled, that I almost didn't realize he said anything at all. "If you choose to come to the other sessions."

"Oh I will," I said, and just as I was about to leave, I turned on my heel and flashed him a roguish smile. "I promise."