I settle into the armchair when I am done; I pull the sketch pad and the pencils from the messenger bag and I draw. I draw from memory. Sometimes I like to draw designs. But sometimes, like now, I like to sketch. The image that comes to mind is one of Grey—the sketchpad is probably half filled with images of Grey. The other half is filled with flames, or murky backdrops, things that I have seen in the Shadow Realm. I had started a journal, which I haven’t written in for quite some time. Instead, I like to draw. This is my outlet. This is how my thoughts find their escape, sometimes; this is how I learn to focus on the things that preoccupy me.
As I wait for Renee – I’d asked her to meet me here on Crownet, and she had responded affirmatively – I pull that last image from my mind. I’d left Grey sleeping. Her dark hair was sprawled over the white pillow beneath her, but the lines of her cheek, of her neck were clear and smooth. She was all tangled up in the sheet, hugging it almost, one knee lifted and crooked over the smooth surface of the cotton, the other hidden beneath. Her shoulder was bare, as well as the smooth, languorous curve of her hip. The shadows dipped down under her arm, modestly hiding her breasts. She was beautiful. She is always beautiful, but in sleep, there is something indescribable about her. And so I try to capture it.
I am immersed in the image, scratching and smudging and smoothing, charcoal and graphite staining my fingertips and blackening my fingernails. And there I stay, until Renee joins me.