Max
98 kg and falling

I tried to avoid eye contact during art, but she kept moving in and out of my eye-line. I'd turn to the side and pretend to get something from my portfolio and then turn back to find her looking in my direction. Hazelnut brown eyes with flecks of gold.
We played this game, looking across the studio at each other and then looking away.
I ignored the art lecturer as much as possible; when she came at me with her stick of charcoal raised lance-like to do battle with my drawing of Sophie I fended her off, almost starting a physical fight when she tried to circumvent my protective arms.
Another break because Olive needed to get something from the back room, methylated spirits, perhaps, to wipe over the kids' paintings stapled to the board in the hallway. Sophie slipped out to the bathroom and I decided to stage an ambush, not only to talk with her but also to see what her drawing looked like. You can tell a lot about someone by how they draw, especially how they draw people. I walked through the mess of students over to her easel, trying to be nonchalant, ignoring the cold stares from the others asking me, 'what are you doing here, this is not your place'.
When she came back in I asked her for the second time, "Hey, have you lost weight?"
She ignored me and started packing up her things. Damn it, I'd obviously said something wrong.
"I've lost eight kilograms," I said, trying to change the subject to me, to find out what was going on with her without sounding like one of those needy guys.
"Have you?" She said, putting her eraser in with her pencils.
"It's pretty good," I said, pointing at her drawing. "You've captured her legs beautifully, I recognize her knees."
"You recognize her knees?" She gave me a small smile. A small victory. The other students were looking at me as if I was an idiot, so I put my hands in my jacket pockets to take away the awkwardness of standing there suddenly with nothing to say. My fingers found the edges of my business cards, printed at my dad's work in batches of 32 the day before – a training exercise for our family business. I pulled one out and, checking to make sure it was not one of the cards I had messed up or cut wrong, handed it to her. She reached out and took it. She actually took it.
"You have a business card? Why do you have a business card?" She looked over at another girl tapping at her phone.
"For my business?" I replied, hating the sarcasm in her voice but also feeling, well, a little honored to be talking to her. I might have a business, she wouldn't know. One day.
"Okay, Max Belmond." She glanced at the card. "So you're a freelance artist. Cool. " She put the card in her bag.
"It's corny, I know, but sometimes you just have to give someone your card, that way, when they finally realize they need you, boom, there's your card."
"Uh huh." Sophie smiled thinly and raised her eyebrows at me, and once again I felt like I was in unknown territory. She waited without moving, the silence a challenge, daring me to make a fool of myself.
Cut and run, I thought, for once take Dad's advice about women, dammit, and leave them wanting more.
"I gotta go, but we'll chat soon, okay?"
"Yeah, sure. See you around." Sophie went back to packing her things as one of her friends closed in on her, waiting to make some sarcastic remark or insult, so I walked away quickly before I could hear them speak.