The advantage of holding this class four flights up was the flood of natural light from the south’s all glass walls. Up here only the birds can whistle at the goings on.

Today’s male model is an art graduate student, Fred.

Needing the extra cash, Fred sits on a make-shift stage, on a rabbit ear backed chair covered by a thrift store bolt of shiny curtain fabric. Three clip-on flood lights position around Fred’s feet. They shine upwards, their light contrasts bring the slight definition of his body tone and small manhood into something reproducible in a drawing. The lights’ heat sweats his skin and drives a rank male air to his audience.

The classroom has a five rowed circle of college age women. A few men hide in the last row. The room hushes save for the scratching of charcoal tips, pencils and a few furious erasers on paper. Once in a while you hear a ripped paper frustration, a crumbling of a mistake and the smoothing of a new leaf of paper on a student’s art pad. The tables and easels stand upright and angled, covering Fred’s view of the artists.

Pauline sits in the third row with a furrowed brow. Her long black hair pulled into a bulky knot rests on her shoulder. Several short curls lace her forehead, and at times she runs a hand over them to keep them from annoying. She lifts her hazel eyes now and then, connecting her view of the naked man to her fingers, and then to the felt tip pen. Hatching, stroking, bringing blood and flesh to the drawing. She twists her full lips and unknowingly licks her lips.

Behind her Pauline hears a girl whisper, “There’s not much to draw now is there?”

Another girl says, “Shhht.”

Pauline looks up to the right, her eyes flash.

Pauline knows Fred. He taught her Painting Seminar last semester. He’s a nice guy and doesn’t deserve hurtful remarks.

He like some of the faculty, flirted with Pauline the first few weeks of class, but gave up the pursuit because Pauline did not respond. She was flattered but was old fashioned and complications of student teacher relationships were not worth the risk of her compromise.

Besides Pauline was too busy juggling her art history and chemistry double majors.

Yes chemistry.

She obeyed her parents wish for her to prepare a career that would be in demand and respected. While she did not ever see herself becoming a researcher she enjoyed the beauty and logic of chemical reactions along with being a fine artist.

And she was delighted to blow the flirtations out of their proverbial sails, with that excuse. Sorry she had too much lab work to do to go,out right now. The men were intimidated. She wasn’t just an art student.

Pauline ignored the whispers behind her. She took her wire rimmed glasses off to better see her black ink strokes.

Fred’s lean frame was graceful. Pauline ran her pen like water dripping from a willow, the ink first light and thin then gathering boldness at its trails end. Thick, dark pooling of ink focusing attention on his middle. His sex. His and perhaps all mens source of definition.

And then her cell phone vibrated.

The incoming text was from Ruiz, her boss at the conservation Lab.

Can you come quick? Ruiz wrote. I may have a buyer for your painting.