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The bell over the door tinkled as Patrick Brewer shuffled into the ‘Rose Apothecary’.
A sullen, brunette woman directed him wordlessly through a doorway leading up a narrow flight of stairs which opened into a generous room with a sloping, rich timber ceiling and rough brick walls. About a dozen people sat at mismatched wooden tables, a hum of quiet, comfortable chatter filling the room. A couple of the people turned to look and smile at him, including the sweet waitress from the cafe, and an older blonde woman wearing a pink sweatshirt with a cat motif.
He knew, logically, that he just needed to get out there. Meet some people in this strange little town he’d found himself in. But he was still coming to terms with what he’d done and wasn’t quite sure he’d been thinking straight when he’d agreed to trying out this class.
Patrick had always been a friendly, social person; some would even venture to call him ‘outgoing’. The thing was, though, after being so unhappy for so long he’d just not felt up to being around people. He’d needed to spend some time decompressing after all that unhappiness he hadn’t even realised he was feeling, and then blowing up his entire life. He wasn’t sure he was ready to socialise just yet, but Ray had insisted. Ray had been so kind since his arrival in Schitt’s Creek ten days ago that Patrick didn’t want to let him down.
“Patrick, over here,” his boss and roommate called. Ray waved enthusiastically and Patrick crossed the room to greet him.
“Oh Ronnie, shift over will you? This is my newest employee Patrick, here to join the class.” The short-haired woman shot Patrick something between a glare and a withering look before moving to the end of the table. She gestured to Patrick and her vacated chair, “By all means.” Patrick sat down, giving a grateful smile to the woman, and took in the room.
The tables were set with what looked like handmade mugs and dishes filled with all manner of pencils, pens, erasers and the blackest of strange square sticks that looked a bit like chalk from way back in kindergarten. Generous stacks of creamy paper sat at each table’s end. The people sitting at the tables were all facing the front of the room and a large easel holding a book of larger sheets of thick paper. A tall, darkhaired man stood with his back to the room adjusting the easel.
Patrick wondered what the heck he was doing here: in an ART class of all things. He’d never been much good at drawing or any other visual art during his school days. He’d always felt out of his depth in art class at school, an unusual feeling when he’d typically excelled at anything he tried his hand at: sports, music, boy scouts, academia... It had been a great relief when he’d reached his senior years and could choose all his own subjects.
He’d always preferred the things he excelled at, like maths and economics, and of course baseball and hockey. So what on earth was he doing here? He wondered if coming along to this class was a good idea. Perhaps he should’ve just waited for baseball season to start? Ray had suggested he ask to join the team for Bob’s Garage. That was probably a much better idea, far more within Patrick’s comfort zone, and more likely his kind of people.
“Alright everybody, why don't we start?" The man at the front turned to face the class and Patrick felt a little jolt. Huh? What’s that about? The man was strikingly good looking, with the darkest liquid chocolate eyes and the strangest outfit Patrick had ever seen. Wait, what? And was the guy wearing a skirt over his pants? And combat boots with pale pink and blue roses all over them? What was the deal with that sweater? Patrick returned his gaze to those mesmerising (huh!?) soulful eyes and felt something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time stir low in his gut. God, STOP staring!! He dropped his gaze to the man’s lovely (wait? what?!?) mouth as he continued to speak.
“Tonight we will be working on portraiture and-“
The man’s lips twisted into a grimace as a clicking of heels drew everyone’s eyes away from him and towards the doorway where a tall, blonde woman dressed in an exotic robe - no what’s it called? a kimono? - teetered towards the front of the room.
“Hi everyone, so l’ll be your model and David’s senior teaching assistant tonight,” the young woman purred, as bracelets jangled and her long fingers started to untie the belt on the kimono.
The man’s impressive eyebrows shot up and his hands shot up even faster, gesticulating (somehow) both wildly and elegantly, while shrilly interjecting, “Ew, no Alexis! We are NOT doing life drawing in these classes.” He then shot a pointed look towards the mullet haired, beer bellied man at the front table next to the cat sweater lady, “Ever.” The man returned his attention to the kimono-ed, bracelet-ed woman. “You’re here for a PORTRAIT sitting.”
Oh, okay, chill, David,” though the woman looked slightly disappointed, and she took the empty seat facing the class as the man switched on a lamp directed at her face and started to gesture at her features.
Patrick listened intently as the man - David - explained shapes and proportions and something called tonal modelling, and then watched as David took a light grey pencil and swept it around the paper on the easel, drawing first a circle - no oval - and then dividing it with horizontal and vertical lines. David then picked up a piece of the black chalky stuff and began drawing the outline of the woman’s face, then eyes, nose and mouth. Patrick watched, rapt, as elegant, ringed fingers created lines and curves, and filled in details as they went, listening as David’s now low, soothing voice described everything he was doing.
Patrick was entranced.
In what seemed no time, a stunning image of the young woman had filled the paper, and David was announcing to the class “OK, your turn now. Just have a go and I’ll walk around and give you suggestions and help as you go.”
Patrick reached for a stick of the black stuff as Ray put out a hand to stop him “Oh no, Patrick, definitely not with that first. Try this pencil for your outline,” while the short haired woman rolled her eyes, “Didn’t you listen?”
Patrick attempted to draw an outline on his paper. Erased. Drew again. No. Again. A bit bumpy but that will do. That will have to do: he can see his classmates have already moved on to filling in details; he’d better get a move on.
Now maybe he should try the hair. Patrick took a piece of the black stuff, which David had called charcoal, and placed a point of the square end down onto the paper, in the place where the woman’s hair part should be. He started to drag the charcoal down the paper, making an unpleasant scratching sound. Oh gosh, what had he been thinking? Patrick lifted the charcoal and stared at it bemused. Placed it back on the paper and drew some lines, feeling uncomfortable and conspicuous. Yes, this was a mistake. He really should have called the captain of the Bobs’s Garage baseball team. He’ll do that tomorrow and never attempt to take an art class again.
Ten minutes later, Patrick held the charcoal just above the paper and looked at his smudgy, jagged mess, his lips compressed in a thin, unhappy line. As he contemplated whether he could make a discreet exit while the rest of the class was engrossed in their work he felt a hand reach down and gently turn the charcoal around so the other end was poised above the paper. “May I help….?” David asked and Patrick nodded. He had no idea where his voice had gone.
David placed his fingers over Patrick’s and something stirred again, deep within Patrick. In a gentle, fluid motion David guided them and the charcoal down and around the blocky cheek and chin, leaving a smooth, sinuous line in its wake. David lifted their hands and moved to the top of the drawing, running the charcoal down the paper in sweeps, creating waves of hair as they went.
Patrick’s fingers tingled as David moved their hands as if one around the paper. Patrick had never felt anything like it. Long, smooth fingers gently led Patrick’s around the paper; Patrick had to remind himself to breathe. This man’s touch was feather light; and mesmerising.
Patrick watched, hardly breathing, as their hands somehow brought to life an image of the woman at the front of the room. It wasn’t anywhere near as good as David’s drawing but Patrick didn’t care. He just savoured the feeling of those fingers on his, their comforting warmth and light, confident pressure.
“OK, put the charcoal back. Now use your pinky fingertip to create little smudges and shading… like this,” David took Patrick’s pinky finger and swept it delicately along the picture’s jawline, Patrick’s own jawline slightly trembling as their fingers again moved along the paper.
And so it continued while Patrick became completely captivated by their connected hands, the feel of David’s long fingers on his, the cold metal of silver rings and the delicate yet deliberate touch of David’s soft (so soft!) fingertips.
The way his own solid hand looked somehow small and inconsequential beneath David’s. And wasn’t that a strange, unfamiliar thought?
Patrick’s stomach flipped over.
Finally, David lifted their hands and hummed a satisfied sound, removing his hand from Patrick’s. Patrick felt the absence keenly and found himself wishing for this man’s touch again. “Good work,” David murmured, “Don’t forget to sign it.”
Patrick signed his name at the bottom of the drawing as David moved away towards the front of the room, “Nice to meet you, Patrick.”
* * * * * * * * *
As he took the stairs down to the ground floor he felt so much lighter than he had when he’d climbed them an hour before. Patrick passed the brunette on his way out the door and she gave him an odd, questioning look and an… uncomfortable?.. was that a smile?
As he slid his key into the car door to head home Patrick noticed several black, charcoal fingerprints on his fingers and the back of his hand, and smiled to himself. Maybe a drawing class hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.