I’m not certain why I wanted to sketch her so badly, but she’d been an obsession of mine since we were kids. Summer had a look about her that made her the perfect subject. Photographers fought for the opportunity to photograph her. I was no different; what they captured on film, I was determined to capture on paper and canvas. To me, she was like the Mona Lisa, an artist’s dream come true.
My real objective was to draw her nearly nude, if not completely so. I had an idea for exactly how I wanted to portray her, the pose and the props I wanted to use, but Summer was skittish. I would have to ease her into the idea one small step at a time. It wasn’t going to be easy to convince her either. I knew that before I blackmailed her into posing at all. If it took the entire summer, the effort would still be worth it.
I finished my coffee and dressed in a pair of old cutoff jeans. With sketchpad in hand, I made my way to the beach where Summer conveniently kept a row of lawn chairs anchored in the sand. The beach was beginning to come alive with activity when I spotted her in the distance, jogging in my direction. I settled comfortably on a chair and waited.
“Morning!” I called cheerfully as she trotted across the sand to a nearby lounger. “Sorry I kept you waiting. I overslept, I guess.”
My apology was merely a mockery of her reluctance. She stubbornly refused to acknowledge my greeting. Her face was completely expressionless.
She unfurled an oversized beach-towel and popped it in the wind to remove any sand before she spread it over a reclining lounge chair. I hurriedly thumbed through my drawing pad until I found a blank page and began making a few rough drafts of her movements.
“That’s it! Hold that pose for a minute,” I prodded as I quickly scratched a few lines on the blank page.
Of course, she ignored my commands and continued with her movements. She gave me a scathing look and I hid a smirk of satisfaction at her irritation. She deliberately kicked a bit of sand in my direction as she retreated towards the surf. I brushed it from my lap with a few swipes of my hand and shook the remainder from my pad. I peered over the rim of my sunglasses as she dove head-first into an oncoming wave.
I watched, enraptured, as she resurfaced and began a leisurely swim parallel to the shore. I copied the images of her strokes to the paper in my lap. My drawings were crude by comparison. Summer moved with the grace of a swan in the water. Each movement was as carefully orchestrated as a ballet dancer’s, perfectly poised and positioned. She had the natural rhythm of a dancer, even when she walked; every limb followed a structured choreography.
When at last she emerged from the surf, Summer’s mood had softened somewhat. It seemed she had forgotten her annoyance with me; she was more relaxed and tolerant of my goading. She patted her skin dry with a small towel and handed me a bottle of sunscreen before stretching herself on the lounge chair in the sun.
She put on a pair of protective glasses, leaned forward on her seat, and pointed to her shoulders and back. I tossed my things aside, took a seat on the edge of her chair and hurried to oblige her request.