sight of her naked back. The longer the semester went on and the more detailed her painting grew, the less often Claire kept her bra and panties on.
“Do you think I should say something to her?” Matt asked Pete. “I mean, she wouldn’t walk around with nothing on if she didn’t want attention, right?”
“I think that’s just how she works,” Pete said. “If she wanted you to make a move, she’d probably give a more traditional signal.”
Matt waved off the suggestion. “You don’t get it.”
“You don’t get artists. This is her method .”
“Yeah, but would you really practice the cello without pants on just for the hell of it? Or would you do it because your roommate is fuckhot and you want to be noticed?”
Pete took his brother by the shoulders, trying to make him see reason. “Matt, even if she is interested, as unlikely as that possibility may be, it’s a bad idea. She’s your roommate. It’s like incest.”
Matt didn’t immediately make a move on Claire, but Pete was wary of leaving them alone in a room together. Living with Claire was easy and she was fun to be around—if Matt scared her off, they’d never find another roommate who was as good as Claire.
“Promise me you won’t make her feel uncomfortable.”
“I can’t promise that.” Just the other day Matt had been lamenting—without bothering to keep his voice down—that their bedroom doors didn’t line up across from each other. If they did, he’d have been able to look at her while he “studied.”
“There are plenty of other naked women you can stare at. They’re all over the internet.”
“But she’s real .” Matt made a noise that sounded like Homer Simpson salivating over a donut. “Seriously, dude, if you could see you’d be standing right there with me, watching her ass while she paints. It’s got just the right amount of jiggle.”
“She’s off limits.”
“No harm in looking.”
“You say that now, but if she packs up and moves out, I guarantee you that the person we find to take her place won’t be as good.”
Matt hummed thoughtfully. Pete had a point. “What if I ogle from afar? Or cut it down to fifteen minutes at a time?
Pete shook his head. “There’s no hope for you.”
*
Pete was most at ease when his brother was out of the apartment. Claire could paint in peace, without being ogled like a stripper, and Pete could practice his cello without listening to Matt whimper and drool down the hall. Tuesdays were best, when Matt had class from nine in the morning until seven at night.
When Pete woke up that Tuesday morning—late, because he didn’t have class until three—Claire was painting with her door open. He could smell the wet paint when he walked down the hall and heard the faint swishes and daubs as her brush met the canvas.
“Claire, do you want a pizza pocket?” he yelled as he pulled the box out of the freezer.
“Pass. Thanks.”
He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as his breakfast spun in the microwave. Today was going to be one of those days where he didn’t put real clothes on until he absolutely had to.
The microwave beeped and Pete took his plate into the living room. He ate it over the course of a Mythbusters rerun and calculated how much more TV he could afford to watch and not fall behind on his assignments. Not much, he concluded, and trudged back to his room when the episode was finished.
Claire called out to him as he walked past, “Pete, I need your advice on this painting.”
Pete paused next to her doorway. “You know I’m the blind twin, right?”
“Excuses, excuses. Come in, please.”
Pete edged into the room, searching the floor with his feet like they were the heads of metal detectors over sand. “You don’t have anything lying on the floor, do you?” By rule, the floors of the shared areas were to be kept clean for safety’s sake, and the furniture was never moved without giving Pete notice. Claire’s room, however, was
“Do you think I should say something to her?” Matt asked Pete. “I mean, she wouldn’t walk around with nothing on if she didn’t want attention, right?”
“I think that’s just how she works,” Pete said. “If she wanted you to make a move, she’d probably give a more traditional signal.”
Matt waved off the suggestion. “You don’t get it.”
“You don’t get artists. This is her method .”
“Yeah, but would you really practice the cello without pants on just for the hell of it? Or would you do it because your roommate is fuckhot and you want to be noticed?”
Pete took his brother by the shoulders, trying to make him see reason. “Matt, even if she is interested, as unlikely as that possibility may be, it’s a bad idea. She’s your roommate. It’s like incest.”
Matt didn’t immediately make a move on Claire, but Pete was wary of leaving them alone in a room together. Living with Claire was easy and she was fun to be around—if Matt scared her off, they’d never find another roommate who was as good as Claire.
“Promise me you won’t make her feel uncomfortable.”
“I can’t promise that.” Just the other day Matt had been lamenting—without bothering to keep his voice down—that their bedroom doors didn’t line up across from each other. If they did, he’d have been able to look at her while he “studied.”
“There are plenty of other naked women you can stare at. They’re all over the internet.”
“But she’s real .” Matt made a noise that sounded like Homer Simpson salivating over a donut. “Seriously, dude, if you could see you’d be standing right there with me, watching her ass while she paints. It’s got just the right amount of jiggle.”
“She’s off limits.”
“No harm in looking.”
“You say that now, but if she packs up and moves out, I guarantee you that the person we find to take her place won’t be as good.”
Matt hummed thoughtfully. Pete had a point. “What if I ogle from afar? Or cut it down to fifteen minutes at a time?
Pete shook his head. “There’s no hope for you.”
*
Pete was most at ease when his brother was out of the apartment. Claire could paint in peace, without being ogled like a stripper, and Pete could practice his cello without listening to Matt whimper and drool down the hall. Tuesdays were best, when Matt had class from nine in the morning until seven at night.
When Pete woke up that Tuesday morning—late, because he didn’t have class until three—Claire was painting with her door open. He could smell the wet paint when he walked down the hall and heard the faint swishes and daubs as her brush met the canvas.
“Claire, do you want a pizza pocket?” he yelled as he pulled the box out of the freezer.
“Pass. Thanks.”
He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as his breakfast spun in the microwave. Today was going to be one of those days where he didn’t put real clothes on until he absolutely had to.
The microwave beeped and Pete took his plate into the living room. He ate it over the course of a Mythbusters rerun and calculated how much more TV he could afford to watch and not fall behind on his assignments. Not much, he concluded, and trudged back to his room when the episode was finished.
Claire called out to him as he walked past, “Pete, I need your advice on this painting.”
Pete paused next to her doorway. “You know I’m the blind twin, right?”
“Excuses, excuses. Come in, please.”
Pete edged into the room, searching the floor with his feet like they were the heads of metal detectors over sand. “You don’t have anything lying on the floor, do you?” By rule, the floors of the shared areas were to be kept clean for safety’s sake, and the furniture was never moved without giving Pete notice. Claire’s room, however, was
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