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In the park between classes, Jesse had a favorite bench. It was worn and splintered on the sides, but had been repainted the previous year by the art department in an effort to spread more awareness for their programs. It largely had not worked—Jesse knew, since he had been part of the team that had pitched the program and designed some of the new murals—but he still considered it his favorite bench.
Painted blue with yellow sunlight, impressionist flowers crawled up the legs and around the sides of the wood. Overhead, a large tree danced inconsistent shadows in the afternoon.
This was Jesse’s favorite place to spend his time between psychology and art history. It was only an hour, but he carried a homemade watercolor tray and shading pencils with him. During the hour, he sketched and painted.
Simple doodles had turned into gesture drawings, and then before he knew it, Jesse was using the world around him to practice proportional accuracy.
And then, his eyes caught on the basketball court.
It was on the other side of the park—two hundred or so feet—and partially obscured by a chainlink fence. But Jesse was just close enough to hear the dribble of the ball and the playful jabs between players.
He was also close enough to watch them play.
And, well, to draw them.
It was difficult to find action poses to practice with in the wild. He used online pictures sometimes, but those were stationary. It wasn’t the same as capturing movement from people who were actually moving. But here? In this park? This was perfect.
Jesse made this a routine. Twice a week, he sat on the bench, and he drew the guys playing basketball. It went on long enough for them to switch from tank tops and shorts to hoodies and pants. And Jesse continued to sketch, gloves on, between classes.
The people on the basketball court were pretty consistent. While the overall cast was rotating, Jesse soon came to recognize them all. There were a few he shared classes with, but he came to be more familiar with their bodies, the way they jumped and leapt and ducked around each other, some of them prone to motions or plays above others.
But there was one, in particular, that Jesse found himself watching more than everyone else.
Eugene Labao. Jesse knew him because they’d shared an economics class last semester. And while Jesse had thought Eugene was cute at the time, they’d been on opposite sides of a lecture hall. He had not spared more than a few stolen glances.
But, on the court?
And he was. He was on the court every day—perhaps the only person Jesse noticed playing so consistently. In the late summer, he’d been particularly fond of tank tops, but as it got colder, he’d dawned an athletic jacket, but kept the shorts.
Jesse tried to tell himself that it was all about the art. Eugene was shorter than most of the other players, and so he had a different way of carrying himself that played on what could have otherwise been a height disadvantage. His technique made him look fluid, spinning and twisting through small gaps in the opposing team’s defense. Surely, this meant that drawing him more than anyone else would have been a logical, artistic step.
Jesse did. Draw him more than anyone else.
It got to a point where he could barely even pretend it was about the gesture drawings. There were more than enough sketches from the waist up. He was determined to capture Eugene’s smile—it was perhaps the most captivating smile he’d ever seen, and he didn’t understand how that could be.
Soon enough, his sketchbook was filled with an embarrassing number of Eugenes.
Jesse liked drawing him, and watching him—moving across the court like he could fly—and painting him. He looked especially beautiful in yellows and purples, like the edges of a sunset.
Until one day—
It was nicer outside, nicer than late November had any right to be, but the park wasn’t very crowded. Most students were beginning to prep for exams in earnest. And for the first time all semester, the basketball court was empty.
Jesse frowned as he lounged against the bench. He supposed that there were a million other things he could be sketching, and even other students walking around, but he missed the basketball practices. The steady thumping of the ball had become a very rhythmic background noise in his biweekly routine.
Instead of drawing anything in front of him, Jesse sketched Eugene from memory.
He wasn’t even sure that it was where he was going until he ended up there. He’d done a gesture skeleton first, mid-jump and about to dunk the basketball into the hoop. But as he began drawing out the body and refining the joints, a familiar face took shape.
Jesse supposed that he’d drawn Eugene so many times, it only made sense.
He really is beautiful, Jesse thought, shading in a harsh shadow beneath the chin. Drawing him was calming.
Not for the first time, Jesse wondered what it would be like to watch him up close. The dynamic motion of his jumps, the bend of his wrist as he dribbled.
Maybe Jesse should ask him out.
“Hey.”
Jesse leapt into the air and flipped around. Standing right behind the bench was the exact face he’d just been shading.
He’d dropped his sketchbook on the bench. Eugene was staring at it, his head tilted sideways. “Oh, neat. I always see you drawing over here. I’ve always wondered if you were any good.”
Jesse yelped, then cleared his throat and pushed the hair away from his forehead. “I attend the art college.”
“Oh, nice.” Eugene leaned back, tucking his hands in his shorts pockets. It may have been nice for November, but Jesse felt his own knees grow cold just looking at Eugene’s. “I’m still undecided. Do you like it?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Cool.” He circled around to the other side of the bench. “I’m Eugene, by the way.”
“I know.”
Eugene’s eyebrows drew together.
“Oh—no, we had a class together. Economics? But—er, I’m Jesse.”
Eugene’s face softened with recognition. “Oh, right. Didn’t you always sat in the back?”
“Yeah. I like to draw during class.”
“Of course you do.” The corner of Eugene’s mouth quirked up. He spared the sketchbook another glance. “It’s great. He looks so real. Do you ever draw anyone specific?”
Jesse tried not to let his eyes go wide. Could Eugene really not tell that it was him? He ran another hand back through his hair.
“No,” Jesse lied.
Eugene shrugged. “Still looks great. Super realistic. You’re skilled as hell.”
With his hands tucked into his pockets and his mouth displaying the hint of a smirk, he looked even more endearing that when he was dancing around a court. Maybe because he was real, standing right here in front of him, rather than a couple hundred feet away on a basketball court.
Ask him out! Jesse’s mind screamed.
A moment of silence passed.
Eugene shrugged again—with only one shoulder this time—and briefly glanced at the sketchbook one more time. “Well, I’ve gotta get going. But don’t be a stranger, alright? I’d love to see more of your art sometime.”
Jesse balled a hand into a fist. It would be so easy to ask him out, right now, right then, he could do it. “Yeah, definitely.”
“See you around, Jesse.”
And then Jesse watched Eugene continue his path across the park and past the basketball court.
He loosened his fists and tried to ignore how fast his heart was racing.
Jesse would have to ask him out. By the end of the semester, for sure. Especially after talking to him, Jesse could no longer deny his attraction.
Maybe not today, but Jesse would ask him out. And maybe he’d show Eugene some of his art.