is Pete.” He tapped his brother’s shoulder.
“If you’re having a conversation with one of us and don’t get eye contact, you’re talking to me.”
“Got it.”
“So, interested in moving in?”
*
The first thing Claire did was cover the floor of her bedroom in plastic sheeting and drop cloths. This was going to be her studio for the next year. She set up her easel in a place where it would get good light from the wide window—the apartment’s best selling point—and arranged the rest of the furniture by afterthought. She didn’t have much—just a futon, a little chest of drawers, and cheap plastic shelves for her paint cans and supplies.
“You’ve settled in nicely,” Matt said, inspecting the fat stack of canvases she’d leaned against the wall. “If you want to put anything up on the living room walls, the place could use a bit of brightening up.” The previous tenants had left the walls unpainted. Every room was coated only in white primer.
“Here.” Claire picked up her big black portfolio bag and set it on the futon. “Go through it and find something you like.”
Matt flipped through her prints, sketches, and canvases. He chose one of her small canvases, heaped with chunky paint, because he liked the colors. It was a picture of a small boat tied off in an urban canal at sunset, rendered in a riot of vibrant color. He hung it above the couch.
“Now you’re officially moved in,” he said. The day after, Claire found him showing Pete the lines and structure of the painting. Matt traced the outline of the boat and the canal wall with his fingers, and Pete’s hand followed him.
“Sorry,” Matt said to her. “We won’t touch.”
Claire felt bad about telling them not to, even though touching a painting could affect the texture of the paint and shed hand oils onto the surface.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Touch all you want. This isn’t a museum.”
“Here.” Matt took his brother by the wrist and put his hand back on the canvas. “Get your fill before she’s rich and famous.”
Claire laughed.
*
That first month, Claire proved to be a very orderly and low-maintenance roommate, and the brothers began to relax about their decision to let her move in. Claire was clean, drama-free, and when it was her night to make dinner she never phoned it in with Kraft Dinner. She didn’t complain about Pete’s music or that, when it was his turn to make dinner, it was a rotating menu of frozen pizza and frozen lasagna. Claire even participated in their weekly ritual of crap TV ( American Idol and X Factor, depending which was airing a new season) with Chinese takeout.
Claire didn’t show her weird side until the third week of the semester, when she started work on the painting that would be her term project. Matt walked by her open bedroom door and made a strangled sound of alarm.
“What?” Pete called from the living room.
“Oh my God, she’s painting naked,” he announced.
“You noticed,” Claire remarked dryly. She wasn’t completely naked. For the early stage of drafting the composition, she’d kept her bra and panties on.
“You’re aware that you live with two heterosexual men, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you naked?” Matt demanded, torn between excitement and alarm.
“This is how I paint.”
Matt turned to yell down the hall to Pete. “We picked the right roommate!”
*
It delighted Matt that Claire’s decision to work in the nude was a habit, not a one-off. Some days she’d come home from class feeling particularly inspired, and would strip on her way to her studio. It was all he could do not to follow her like a horny puppy and stand in the door, watching her paint. Maybe she’d get a drop on her breast and he could wipe it off…
It amused Pete that Claire had turned his brother into a drooling moron. He noticed the way Matt’s footsteps slowed every time he passed Claire’s room, just to prolong the
“If you’re having a conversation with one of us and don’t get eye contact, you’re talking to me.”
“Got it.”
“So, interested in moving in?”
*
The first thing Claire did was cover the floor of her bedroom in plastic sheeting and drop cloths. This was going to be her studio for the next year. She set up her easel in a place where it would get good light from the wide window—the apartment’s best selling point—and arranged the rest of the furniture by afterthought. She didn’t have much—just a futon, a little chest of drawers, and cheap plastic shelves for her paint cans and supplies.
“You’ve settled in nicely,” Matt said, inspecting the fat stack of canvases she’d leaned against the wall. “If you want to put anything up on the living room walls, the place could use a bit of brightening up.” The previous tenants had left the walls unpainted. Every room was coated only in white primer.
“Here.” Claire picked up her big black portfolio bag and set it on the futon. “Go through it and find something you like.”
Matt flipped through her prints, sketches, and canvases. He chose one of her small canvases, heaped with chunky paint, because he liked the colors. It was a picture of a small boat tied off in an urban canal at sunset, rendered in a riot of vibrant color. He hung it above the couch.
“Now you’re officially moved in,” he said. The day after, Claire found him showing Pete the lines and structure of the painting. Matt traced the outline of the boat and the canal wall with his fingers, and Pete’s hand followed him.
“Sorry,” Matt said to her. “We won’t touch.”
Claire felt bad about telling them not to, even though touching a painting could affect the texture of the paint and shed hand oils onto the surface.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Touch all you want. This isn’t a museum.”
“Here.” Matt took his brother by the wrist and put his hand back on the canvas. “Get your fill before she’s rich and famous.”
Claire laughed.
*
That first month, Claire proved to be a very orderly and low-maintenance roommate, and the brothers began to relax about their decision to let her move in. Claire was clean, drama-free, and when it was her night to make dinner she never phoned it in with Kraft Dinner. She didn’t complain about Pete’s music or that, when it was his turn to make dinner, it was a rotating menu of frozen pizza and frozen lasagna. Claire even participated in their weekly ritual of crap TV ( American Idol and X Factor, depending which was airing a new season) with Chinese takeout.
Claire didn’t show her weird side until the third week of the semester, when she started work on the painting that would be her term project. Matt walked by her open bedroom door and made a strangled sound of alarm.
“What?” Pete called from the living room.
“Oh my God, she’s painting naked,” he announced.
“You noticed,” Claire remarked dryly. She wasn’t completely naked. For the early stage of drafting the composition, she’d kept her bra and panties on.
“You’re aware that you live with two heterosexual men, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you naked?” Matt demanded, torn between excitement and alarm.
“This is how I paint.”
Matt turned to yell down the hall to Pete. “We picked the right roommate!”
*
It delighted Matt that Claire’s decision to work in the nude was a habit, not a one-off. Some days she’d come home from class feeling particularly inspired, and would strip on her way to her studio. It was all he could do not to follow her like a horny puppy and stand in the door, watching her paint. Maybe she’d get a drop on her breast and he could wipe it off…
It amused Pete that Claire had turned his brother into a drooling moron. He noticed the way Matt’s footsteps slowed every time he passed Claire’s room, just to prolong the
Similar Books
