I knew where this conversation was going. I just nodded and bowed my head. The small sketchbook he plopped on the desk was my latest personal sketchbook filled with my dreams, which meant it was full of those amethyst eyes. He wanted to talk about my sketches of her… again. Honestly, what was wrong with my obsession? I so badly wanted to project imagery and feeling to my father—then he might understand what I found so captivating about her. I’ve been able to project an idea of an image, but only using words and descriptions. He’s never been able to actually see what I see, feel what I feel. Christ. If he could step into just one of my dreams, he wouldn’t be questioning me about my fixation. He continued to sit and stare at me, blocking his thoughts. This conversation, or lack of, was getting nowhere. I sat back, crossing my arms over my chest, and sighed. It wasn’t until several minutes had passed that I noticed all the other students had cleared out of the main room in the studio, which is where my desk took up real estate.
