In spite of noticing a light in the tunnel of our relationship, I still refused to spend time with Marcel the following days. He didn't stop trying to take me out running the next morning. And after work he kept nagging to spend the afternoon by the lake with Carmina and Paolina.

“They're not my kind of people,” I answered when asked about the reason. 

The ascertainment wasn't far from the truth. While Carmina seemed to be a pretty decent human being, Paolina, an only child of Vagli Sopra's mayor, always occurred to me as childish and way too self-centered.  

“What is “your kind” of people then?” He asked banteringly.

He was observing me closely. I kept drawing Luca, who was posing for the photographer at the square near the church, where we were shooting that day. My kind of people…

“Considerate, sensible… kind,” I replied after a short while. 

“Just like me?” He gave me a wide smile.

“Quite the opposite.” 

“Am I not kind?” He bridled jokingly. “Who else would be so nice to a forever sulking guy like you?”

“You're only kind when it's convenient to you” I smiled back at him. “And you tend to do before thinking. Way too careless for my standards.”

“Carelessness is the privilege of youth, my dear.” He retorted to me with a satisfied smirk. “You should try it sometime, while you still have a chance.”

What was he referring to? Did he mean my reluctance towards spending time with him and his new friends? Or was there something more to his words? 

The thought of the latter made me surprisingly nervous. There were questions I was too afraid to ask even inside my own head, feelings I was scared to notice, impulses I was terrified to answer to. Did he spot it? Was it exactly what he had seen in my eyes the first time he came to our house?

I was walking back and forth on the terrace in the attic. It was my secret hideout, a place I used to come to sit by myself whenever something irritated me. For quite some time it's been serving me as a spot to  hide cigarettes and smoke from time to time. 

Mom raised me in a relaxed atmosphere with almost no restrictions. I was free to make my own mistakes and learn from them. Yet cigarettes were an exception, the only thing strictly prohibited. It wasn't the nicotine itself attracting me to this drug, but the thought of doing something forbidden, something that only I knew about. Although that particular night I might have reached for the pack of Camels solely out of my nerves getting out of control. 

I was restlessly checking the hour, again and  again, with some itchy feeling crawling under my skin. I knew exactly what I was waiting for, and at the same time was fooling myself into forced oblivion. It was getting dark, and my intruder still hadn't returned from his afternoon out. Was he swimming? Playing cards? Drinking beer at the shore of Lago di Vagli? Was he flirting with the girls? He was a guy to kill for - handsome, bright, with an interesting job, traveling a lot. They would flirt with him for sure, if only he was interested. But was he?

Crumbled concrete of the floor was crunching with each step taken. The air was slowly cooling down, and the sky covered in deep purples, insinuating that even the longest days of the year must surrender to the night. I leaned on the railing when the roar of engines disturbed evening's silence. Cheerful laughter followed the sound of tires braking on the scoriaceous road. It was him - saying his goodbyes to Carmina, Paolina, and some guy I didn't recognize from afar. They were sitting on the scooters, chatting joyfully. I observed their farewell carefully with a cigarette in my mouth. Will he hug the girls before leaving? Yes. Will he spare the guy? Yes. Will he turn around to wave once more before going up the porch stairs? Yes… Oh sweet jealousy, deplorable goddess of bloodshed. Why is it so hard to avoid you? Why is it so hard to admit to you? 

I watched the company dispersed, and the scooters disappeared behind the neighboring building. Thankfully no-one saw me, not even Marcel. What would I say if he had caught me watching? I was getting some air… I was counting stars… I couldn't stand the wait for you inside… Of course I was waiting for him. One look at my face, and he would know exactly what was going on, no matter the nonchalance I would use to serve a lie.

I waited some more, burned another cigarette and turned my steps towards our bedroom. He was sleeping already, spread on the bed in a funny position, with his arm dangling a few centimeters over the floor. 

Although I shook my head in indignation, my eyes were wandering around his body, impressed. The shy moonlight falling through the French shutters was softly painting patterns on his well-defined abdomen. I stared at him stunned, observing his chest wave rhythmically, as the light kept stroking his skin. Masterpiece, I thought, he is a masterpiece. 

I quietly walked up to the desk. Careful not to make a sound, I grabbed the sketchbook and a pencil, and sat at the verge of my bed. The sketch was chaotic. The moonlight was dancing beautifully on his body. All the shapes and angles were placed correctly. He looked gorgeous both in the flesh, and embodied by the lead of my pencil. 

Muscles, tendons, bones, wrinkled material of his shorts, locks of his brown hair swirling around the pillow, all gathered in a perfect composition of Marcel. Marcel… Was he an intruder or a muse? Could he be both? I hated his presence, and at the same time I was craving it. His body was calling me to draw, to shade, to guide the pencil, to stroke the paper mercilessly, as if that sketch was a matter of life and death.

Suddenly, when detailing his jawline, I noticed his eyes were open. The scrubbing of my pencil must have woken him up. I froze in terror. We kept staring at each other for a while, until his lips shaped into a cheeky smile, and his eyes sparkled.

"Do you like what you see?" He asked. Why was his voice so dangerously seductive? Or was it just my imagination? 

I immediately shut the sketchbook, pretending nothing had happened. Lying down, I hid the book under my pillow like a meticulously kept secret. Keeping quiet, I laid there still, facing the wall, too scared to move. He had every right to mock me further, but he stopped there. No more words were uttered, and I was grateful for this silence. 

Though concededly embarrassed, I was too tired to stay awake much longer. Too exhausted to reflect upon his words, my actions, his body, my sketchbook, his skin, my pencil, my…