I’d been hearing it for the last twenty minutes. I kept my eyes closed, hoping whatever it was would go away. My body became aware he was close as his scent filled the room. I blinked several times before focusing on him. He had stretched out on my day lounge, still in sweats. He’d removed his shirt again and tossed it on the floor, along with assorted art supplies. He was wearing thick-framed glasses as he worked, making him look like some Ivy League professor. Sex education no doubt. His fingertips were blackened from what I assumed was charcoal. Whatever the drawing was, it captured his attention intensely. The sound I heard was him furiously sketching. His prominent green eyes caught mine and flashed me a wink. “Did I wake you?” he asked, still rubbing and drawing. I yawned and stretched out my toes on my bed. “I thought I had mice. That constant scratching.” I laughed. “Nope, just me, Wicked the artist, working on my next chef d’oeuvre.”
