Mark's party looked like every Mark party - too many people in a two-person apartment, music too loud from a bluetooth speaker on the windowsill, and someone had already spilled red on the rug Mark bought on eBay and was as proud of as a Pulitzer Prize. The kitchen functioned as a bar - three bottles of wine, vodka of uncertain origin, and beer in the bathtub with ice, because the fridge couldn't fit it. Tess Castillo sat on the armrest of the couch - because there was no room on the couch itself, or because Tess was physically incapable of sitting on furniture like a normal human being. Drawing something on a napkin - quick, confident, tip of her tongue poking out in concentration. Finished, unfolded the napkin with both hands, ceremoniously, like a diploma. "Ta-da. Anatomically correct. You can check, I'm a professional." On the napkin was a dick. Obviously. Tess Castillo drew CG for indie visual novels, and her portfolio contained more penises than a urology textbook, and she saw no reason to hide this - not in interviews, not at parties, not before God if He asked. "No, seriously, this vein right here I drew from a reference. A live reference. Well, a photo of a live reference. Okay fine, from Pornhub. But I studied." Tess poked him in the side, expecting a reaction, and her bracelets jangled - she wore about six on each wrist, and every other one she'd found somewhere or stolen or gotten as a gift and forgotten from whom. Then she put her hand on his shoulder. Just like that - she put her hand on everyone's shoulder, she touched people like breathing, comma here, period there, hand on a knee in place of an exclamation mark. Mark, Lisa, the accounting guy whose name no one remembered, the bartender girl from last party - everyone. And it meant nothing. Everyone knew that. Only on his shoulder her hand lingered a second longer than on everyone else's. Maybe. Maybe it just seemed that way. Tess leaned toward his ear - whispered something, something funny, he snorted and shook his head, and Tess was glowing, and her hair brushed his cheek, accidentally, like everything with Tess - accidentally and chaotically and warm and easy. "Alright, I'm going to steal more wine. Want some? You want some. I decided for you. Don't thank me."

JC is dead. Well, "presumed." "Missing, presumed dead" - long phrase, bureaucratic, and I was drawing it while he was on the phone with the university, literally - sitting on the floor drawing those words in the margins of my sketchbook, "presumed dead," and next to "dead" I drew a little flower, and it was disgusting, and I didn't erase it.

Six months. I drew JC. A lot, every day, and I closed the sketchbook when anyone came near, but once I forgot it on the washing machine, and he found it, and I don't know if he looked, and I don't ask. JC with a beer. JC asleep, mouth open, hair in her face. JC laughing - that drawing is the worst of all, because laughter is impossible to draw, I've tried twenty times, never got it right.

Right now - the couch. His apartment. Late, light from the kitchen, and I'm sitting next to him, close, shoulder to shoulder, knees pulled up, and I have nothing to say, and that's not normal, because I always have something to say, I'm Tess, I fill silence, that's my job, but right now - nothing. Empty. Words ran out.

I put my hand on his knee. Not stroking - just resting. Weight of the palm. And I sit.

Then - quiet, quieter than I can do:

"She'd say something awful right now. Like - what the hell are you two so boring for, let's go get pizza."

A smile. Small, not happy, real.

"I miss her. And I feel like shit. And I don't know what to say, and this -" hand in the air, bracelets clinked - "this is what pisses me off the most. Because I always know what to say."

I look at him. Eyes burn. Not crying. I don't cry. Well, almost.

Here's what I remember: a horror movie. Bad one, I picked it, I always pick bad horrors, it's my kink, don't judge. Blanket, laptop on his lap, my legs on his lap - and I don't remember when that started, legs on his lap, it just became that way at some point and we both pretended it had always been like that.

I'm watching the screen and covering my mouth with my hand so I don't crack up, because the monster looks like an inflatable banana, and I can feel him looking not at the screen but at me, and I have paint on my neck, and he probably thinks it's paint, but it's the shadow from the screen, and he's still looking, and there's something in that look - or maybe I'm imagining it, maybe he's just looking, people look, that's normal -

And he kisses me. Well, tries. He leans forward and I turn my head at the same moment and it lands on the corner of my mouth, and we both freeze, and the laptop starts sliding, and I catch it with one hand and put it on the floor and say:

"Finally. I thought you never would."

And I laugh - nervous, loud, and I didn't expect that sound from myself, and I kiss him properly, and our teeth clack, and I don't care.

And then - his hands, and he doesn't know where to put them, and it shows, and it's - okay, it's cute, it's really cute actually - and I take his hand and put it on my thigh and say "right here, god, is this your first time" - and he laughs, and I laugh, and the horror on the floor is screaming, and someone's dying.

Shirt. Mine. Over my head. Bracelets catch on the collar - "wait, fuck, wait" - hair everywhere - "okay, done, come here."

And here's the moment. I'm topless and he's looking, and I know what he sees - small breasts, and I spent my whole life thinking that was a minus, and I look at him and think any second now he'll look away or say something polite - and he looks. At me. At them. And in that look there's no politeness. And something inside me, something that had been clenched since I was fourteen - unclenches.

Waking up. Well, "waking up" is a strong word. More like - surfacing. Slowly, in parts. First - the smell: his pillow, his soap, and paint, teal smells different than cadmium, and I was drawing in bed last night and fell asleep with dirty hands, and on the pillow - an orange smear, cadmium, thin, like a signature. His pillow. Ours.

Light through the curtains, in stripes. His shirt on me, ridden up above my ribs, and on my ribs - yesterday's teal, and panties with strawberries, I think, I don't remember which ones I put on, and one leg under the blanket, the other on top, and he's next to me, and he's warm, and I feel good, and that word - "good" - is so simple and so accurate that I want to draw it.

In the kitchen there's Phyllis. The monstera. My only organized project - sticker: "Phyllis: MON, THU," in serious handwriting, like a contract. Next to it - my toothbrush in a glass, bristles already splayed because I brush my teeth like I'm going to war, and he told me about it, and I said "teeth are my enemies, and I'm winning" - and that was three weeks ago, and the brush still sticks out of the glass next to his.

I crawl to him. Literally crawl - horizontally, like a seal, bury my face in his shoulder. Hair in his mouth. It smells like him, and me, and paint, and all of it together - our smell, and we have a smell, and that thought makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

"Coffee." Into his shoulder, barely audible. "Please. I'm dying."

"You're not dying."

"I am. Slowly. From caffeine deprivation. This will be on your conscience."

Not moving. Not a millimeter. His hand on my back, on bare skin under the ridden-up shirt, and his fingers are probably already covered in teal, and I don't care, and he doesn't care, and we're in no rush.

Saturday. I'm on the floor in the living room, sketchbook, pencils fanned out, drawing CG for a client - complicated pose, the leg's wrong, redrawing for the third time - tip of my tongue clamped, earbud in one ear, from the other I hear the world, and the world is him in the kitchen, the coffee maker, and that sound means "home," and I don't think about it, I just know.

I'm wearing his shirt. Unbuttoned, on bare skin. Panties with watermelons. Paint on my collarbone, on my knees, on the floor - cadmium red, I'll wipe it up later. No, I won't. We both know.

And I think - there. This is it. Saturday, floor, drawing, he's making coffee, and it's fine, and fine is the best word, it's just that nobody appreciates it while it's there.

Doorbell.

"Get it, it's probably the delivery, I ordered a pot for Phyllis, well, not a pot, a bigger pot, never mind."

Drawing. I hear him open the door. I hear silence - not the silence when someone takes a package and says "thanks," a different one, heavy, and I look up.

A woman's voice. Hoarse. Unfamiliar - no. Familiar. Very familiar.

"Hey. Miss me?"

I stand up. Legs on autopilot. Walk to the door.

JC.

Tanned. Thinner. Hair longer. Thin lines on her wrists that weren't there before. And the pink plastic heart on her neck - I know that heart, he gave it to her when they were twelve, and I drew that heart from memory, many times, in the sketchbook I kept closed.

She looks at me. At the shirt. His shirt. Unbuttoned. On bare skin. Watermelons on the panties.

I drop the pencil. Don't notice.

JC is alive. My best friend is alive. And I'm standing in his shirt on bare skin and don't know what my face is doing right now - smiling? crying? - and don't know what I feel, and this is unbearable, because I always know what I feel, it's my only real skill.

Two weeks. She sleeps in the living room, on our couch, well - on his couch, well - on the couch where we watched horror movies and where he first kissed me on the corner of my mouth, and I try not to think about that every time I walk past and see her blanket, folded, neatly, and her pillow, and her phone charging, and she lives here, and I live here, and he lives here, and the apartment is a two-bedroom, and the walls aren't that thick.

He went out for groceries. Or said he went for groceries. Maybe he just needed to get out. I understand. I want to get out too. But I don't leave, because if I leave - she'll be alone in the apartment, and he'll come back to just her, and it'll look like I left, and I'm not leaving.

She's in the kitchen. Cooking. Since she came back - every day, something complicated, from recipes. Before, JC fried an egg and considered it an achievement. Now - spices, sauces, pots. Hair tied back, apron, movements precise. Beautiful. She was always beautiful, Megan Fox with an anthropologist's brain, and now - even more beautiful, the tan, wider hips, moves differently, and I hate that I notice and can't stop noticing.

I walk into the kitchen. Freeze.

"Oh," JC says, not turning around. "Hey."

"Hey."

Silence. The stove hisses. I'm standing in the doorway and thinking - before, I'd sit on the counter and swing my legs and ask "what are we making?", and JC would throw a towel at me, and we'd laugh. Before.

She turns. Looks at me. And I see - not anger. Worse. Exhaustion.

"Tess." Quiet. "You're in my apartment. In his shirt. With my husband."

And I should say something smart, or soft, or at least funny, but instead:

"You were dead, JC."

"Well. Not dead."

The heart on her neck sways. Pink. Plastic. I drew it from memory. Many times. And right now I'm staring at it and can't look away, and she sees that I'm staring, and we both go quiet, and the stove hisses, and downstairs a door slams.

Quiet. That's what right now is. Quiet.

Night. The apartment. JC left - to a friend's, or a motel, or her mom's, I didn't ask and she didn't say, just - "I need a couple days" - and the door. On the hook - her apron. On the drying rack - her mug, upside down. I remember when that mug stood here without her, remember that he didn't touch it, and now it stands here without her again, and it's all in a circle, and I don't know what to do with it.

I'm on the couch. Knees pulled up, blanket to my chin, sketchbook on the floor. Closed. Not drawing. Not talking. Not commenting. Bracelets quiet. And I'm small - smaller than usual, and the blanket is bigger than me, and I'm twenty-two, and I don't know the rules for what's happening, and nobody knows, and there's no textbook, and there's no Google, and there's no JC who'd say "stop overthinking, let's go get pizza" - because JC is the reason.

I look straight ahead. Then - at him.

"I'm not going to fight for you." Quiet. No smile. "Not because I don't want to. Because you're not a thing."

Pause.

"But I'm here. And I'm not leaving. And if you want me to be here - I'm here. And if not..." - fingers squeeze the edge of the blanket - "...say so. Just say it. Don't go quiet. Please. I can't do it when people go quiet."

Eyes burn. Not crying. I don't cry.

Okay - almost.

Тесс рисовала - быстро, уверенно, карандаш летал по бумаге как всегда когда она ловила что-то, какую-то линию или изгиб или тень, и весь мир переставал существовать, и кофе остывал, и телефон вибрировал без ответа, и кончик языка торчал от концентрации, потому что Тесс Кастильо не умела концентрироваться без кончика языка.

Кафе было полупустое - вторник, два часа дня, за соседним столиком мужик с ноутбуком делал вид что работает а на самом деле смотрел ютуб без звука. Тесс сидела у окна, скетчбук на коленях, латте в левой руке - остывший, нетронутый, она заказала его двадцать минут назад и с тех пор не вспомнила.

Он подошёл не с той стороны.

Это важно - потому что если бы он подошёл справа, она бы закрыла скетчбук, привычным движением, машинально, как закрывают ноутбук когда кто-то заходит в комнату. Но он подошёл слева, и она увидела его на секунду позже чем он увидел страницу, и эта секунда - одна секунда - всё изменила.

На странице был он. Не портрет с претензией, не фотореализм - быстрый скетч, линии, штрихи, но узнаваемо. Угол челюсти, поворот головы, и что-то в выражении - что-то что Тесс поймала и перенесла на бумагу, что-то что он сам про себя не знал, или знал но не видел со стороны.

Тесс Кастильо - студентка-художница, рисовала члены как другие люди рисуют смайлики, обсуждала анатомию за завтраком, показывала портфолио на вечеринках незнакомым людям - Тесс Кастильо покраснела.

Не слегка. По-настоящему. От шеи вверх, быстро, и веснушки через переносицу стали ярче на красном, и она - впервые за всё время что он её знал - не нашлась что сказать.

Потому что порно - это работа. А портрет - это "я на тебя смотрю когда ты не видишь". И от этого никакой шуткой не отмахнёшься.

Секунда. Две.

Тесс захлопнула скетчбук - быстро, обеими руками, прижала к груди как улику. Потом посмотрела на него - снизу вверх, глаза огромные, как всегда когда поймана - и сказала:

• Это не ты. Это композиция. Ты просто похож на композицию.

И сама услышала как это звучит, и покраснела ещё сильнее, и засмеялась - нервно, коротко, не тем смехом которым обычно, а тем который означал что Тесс Кастильо не контролирует ситуацию и ей от этого одновременно ужасно и немного прекрасно.

Стук в дверь был не то чтобы громкий - скорее настойчивый, как будто стучавшая забыла что существует дверной звонок, или знала но решила что стучать интереснее. Час ночи. Может позже.

За дверью стояла Тесс. В той самой юбке - короткой, яркой, из тех что она натягивала не думая и в которых выглядела так что думали все остальные. Кеды в блёстках, чужая джинсовка на три размера больше, браслеты все на месте - и улыбка на пол-лица, только чуть расфокусированная, чуть шире чем трезвая.

• Привет! - сказала Тесс Кастильо с такой радостью, как будто она не видела его лет пять, а не восемь часов назад. - Я шла домой. И подумала - а зачем домой? У тебя ближе.

У него было не ближе. Тесс жила в двух домах от Марка, а он - в шести кварталах в другую сторону. Но пьяная Тесс оперировала собственной географией, где расстояние измерялось не в метрах а в "хочу - не хочу", и сейчас по этой карте его дверь была ближайшей точкой во вселенной.

Она прошла мимо - не дожидаясь приглашения, потому что Тесс и трезвая не особо дожидалась, а пьяная и подавно. Села на диван, подтянула колени к груди, юбка задралась на бедро и она не поправила, стянула чужую джинсовку - под ней кроп-топ, ключицы, засохшая фиолетовая краска на запястье.

• У тебя есть вода? И вот эти... крекеры. Солёные. У тебя же были?

Откуда Тесс знала что у него есть солёные крекеры - вопрос без ответа, и возможно она не знала а угадала, потому что Тесс угадывала бытовые вещи с пугающей точностью и промахивалась во всём остальном.

Он принёс воду и крекеры. Тесс пила жадно, с закрытыми глазами, и капля скатилась по подбородку на шею, и она не вытерла. Потом посмотрела на него - прямо, без шуточной дистанции, без подмигивания, без "ну ты понял" - просто посмотрела, как смотрят когда пьяные и уставшие и не хочется держать лицо.

• Знаешь что, - сказала Тесс. - Мне нравится у тебя. Не квартира. Ну, квартира тоже. Но вообще - у тебя. Рядом. Мне нравится рядом с тобой.

Сказала - и сама услышала. И не отшутилась. Обычно Тесс добавляла что-нибудь - "в смысле ты тёплый и бесплатный", "не льсти себе", что-нибудь что превращало честное в безопасное. Но сейчас она сидела с пустым стаканом в руках, и молчала, и алкоголь убрал ту тонкую штуку которая стояла между "чувствовать" и "сказать вслух", и возвращать её обратно Тесс не умела и не хотела.

Тесс открыла дверь через минуту - он слышал шлёпанье босых ног по полу, потом тишину, потом щёлканье замка. Стояла в проёме - трусы с клубничками, расстёгнутая фланелевая рубашка на голое тело, волосы в пучке из которого торчал карандаш. На рёбрах - полоса синей краски, подсохшая, которую она либо не заметила, либо заметила и забила.

• О, - сказала Тесс. Не "привет", не "заходи" - просто "о", и это "о" вместило радость, удивление, и лёгкую панику человека который вспомнил что договаривались и забыл подготовиться, хотя Тесс никогда в жизни ни к чему не готовилась и начинать было бы странно.

• Заходи. Подожди. Секунду.

Она метнулась в комнату, и он зашёл, и квартира Тесс была ровно такой какой должна быть квартира Тесс - хаос, организованный по принципам понятным только ей. Краски на полу рядом с тарелкой засохшей пасты. Монстера в горшке - единственный объект который выглядел ухоженным. Три кружки на столе, одна с карандашами, две с чем-то что когда-то было чаем.

И монитор. Большой, яркий, повёрнутый к двери - потому что Тесс жила одна и ей было наплевать на углы обзора. На экране - CG в процессе. Девушка на спине, запрокинутая голова, линия бедра, рука партнёра на её животе. Анатомически точно, красиво, откровенно, профессионально - рабочий материал, такой же как бухгалтерская таблица для бухгалтера, только с членами.

Тесс вернулась, на ходу застёгивая одну пуговицу - ровно одну, среднюю, оставив остальное как есть - и перехватила его взгляд на мониторе.

Тесс Кастильо рисовала обнажёнку каждый день. Обсуждала позы за завтраком. Показывала портфолио на вечеринках. Это была работа, тело как материал - и ей было искренне всё равно кто видит экран.

Но он посмотрел на экран, а потом на неё - в расстёгнутой рубашке, с краской на рёбрах, с карандашом в волосах - и Тесс вдруг увидела свою квартиру его глазами. Монитор с порно которое не порно а работа, она в трусах с клубничками, засохшая паста на тарелке, и между "я рисую тела для работы" и "я стою перед тобой полуголая рядом с телами которые рисую" оказалась дистанция, которую она не ожидала и к которой не подготовилась.

Не стыд. Осознание - что он видит её. Не Тесс-с-вечеринки, не Тесс-которая-шутит - а вот эту, домашнюю, настоящую, с пастой и порно и клубничками.

• Чай будешь? - спросила Тесс. - У меня есть чистая кружка. Где-то.

Tess was drawing - quick, confident, pencil flying across paper the way it always did when she caught something, some line or curve or shadow, and the whole world stopped existing, and coffee went cold, and her phone buzzed unanswered, and the tip of her tongue stuck out in concentration, because Tess Castillo could not concentrate without the tip of her tongue.

The café was half-empty - Tuesday, two in the afternoon, at the next table a guy with a laptop pretending to work while actually watching YouTube on mute. Tess sat by the window, sketchbook on her knees, latte in her left hand - cold, untouched, she'd ordered it twenty minutes ago and hadn't remembered since.

He approached from the wrong side.

This matters - because if he'd come from the right, she would've closed the sketchbook, automatic, reflexive, the way you close a laptop when someone walks into the room. But he came from the left, and she saw him a second later than he saw the page, and that second - one second - changed everything.

On the page was him. Not a pretentious portrait, not photorealism - a quick sketch, lines, strokes, but recognizable. The angle of his jaw, the turn of his head, and something in the expression - something Tess had caught and transferred to paper, something he didn't know about himself, or knew but had never seen from the outside.

Tess Castillo - art student, drew dicks the way other people draw smiley faces, discussed anatomy over breakfast, showed her portfolio at parties to strangers - Tess Castillo blushed.

Not slightly. For real. From neck upward, fast, and the freckles across her nose stood out brighter against the red, and she - for the first time in all the time he'd known her - couldn't find anything to say.

Because porn is work. But a portrait is "I look at you when you're not looking." And no joke brushes that off.

One second. Two.

Tess slammed the sketchbook shut - fast, both hands, pressed it to her chest like evidence. Then looked at him - from below, eyes huge, the way they always were when caught - and said:

"That's not you. It's a composition. You just look like a composition."

And heard how that sounded, and blushed harder, and laughed - nervous, short, not the laugh she usually had, but the one that meant Tess Castillo was not in control of the situation and that was simultaneously terrible and a little bit wonderful.

The knock on the door wasn't exactly loud - more insistent, as if the person knocking had forgotten doorbells existed, or knew but decided knocking was more interesting. One a.m. Maybe later.

Behind the door stood Tess. In that skirt - the short, bright one, the kind she pulled on without thinking and looked the kind of way that made everyone else think. Glitter sneakers, someone else's denim jacket three sizes too big, all bracelets accounted for - and a smile taking up half her face, just slightly out of focus, slightly wider than sober.

"Hi!" said Tess Castillo with the kind of joy as if she hadn't seen him in five years and not eight hours ago. "I was walking home. And I thought, why home? Your place is closer."

His place was not closer. Tess lived two houses from Mark's, and he was six blocks in the other direction. But drunk Tess operated on her own geography, where distance was measured not in meters but in "want to - don't want to," and right now on that map his door was the nearest point in the universe.

She walked past - not waiting for an invitation, because Tess didn't really wait when sober either, and drunk even less so. Sat on the couch, pulled her knees to her chest, skirt rode up on her thigh and she didn't fix it, pulled off the borrowed denim jacket - underneath a crop top, collarbones, dried purple paint on her wrist.

"Do you have water? And those... crackers. Salty ones. You had them, right?"

How Tess knew he had salty crackers was a question without an answer, and possibly she didn't know but guessed, because Tess guessed everyday things with frightening accuracy and missed on everything else.

He brought water and crackers. Tess drank greedily, eyes closed, and a drop ran down her chin onto her neck, and she didn't wipe it. Then looked at him - straight, without the joking distance, without a wink, without "you know what I mean" - just looked, the way people look when they're drunk and tired and don't want to hold a face anymore.

"You know what," said Tess. "I like it at your place. Not the apartment. Well, the apartment too. But just... at yours. Near you. I like being near you."

Said it - and heard herself. And didn't deflect. Usually Tess would add something - "I mean you're warm and free," "don't flatter yourself," something that turned honest into safe. But right now she sat with an empty glass in her hands, and was quiet, and the alcohol had removed that thin thing standing between "feeling" and "saying out loud," and putting it back Tess neither could nor wanted to.

Tess opened the door after a minute - he heard the slapping of bare feet on the floor, then silence, then the click of the lock. She stood in the doorway - strawberry-print panties, unbuttoned flannel shirt on bare skin, hair in a bun with a pencil sticking out of it. On her ribs - a stripe of blue paint, dried, which she either hadn't noticed or noticed and didn't care.

"Oh," said Tess. Not "hi," not "come in," just "oh," and that "oh" contained joy, surprise, and the mild panic of someone who remembered they'd made plans and forgot to prepare, although Tess had never in her life prepared for anything and starting now would be strange.

"Come in. Wait. One second."

She darted into the room, and he walked in, and Tess's apartment was exactly what Tess's apartment should be - chaos, organized by principles only she understood. Paints on the floor next to a plate of dried pasta. Monstera in a pot - the only object that looked cared for. Three mugs on the table, one with pencils, two with something that had once been tea.

And the monitor. Big, bright, facing the door - because Tess lived alone and didn't care about viewing angles. On screen - a CG in progress. Girl on her back, head thrown back, line of a hip, partner's hand on her stomach. Anatomically precise, beautiful, explicit, professional - work material, same as a spreadsheet for an accountant, just with dicks.

Tess came back, buttoning one button on the way - exactly one, the middle one, leaving the rest as is - and caught his glance at the monitor.

Tess Castillo drew nudes every day. Discussed poses over breakfast. Showed her portfolio at parties. It was work, body as material - and she genuinely didn't care who saw the screen.

But he looked at the screen, and then at her - in the unbuttoned shirt, with paint on her ribs, with a pencil in her hair - and Tess suddenly saw her apartment through his eyes. The monitor with porn that wasn't porn but work, her in strawberry panties, dried pasta on the plate, and between "I draw bodies for work" and "I'm standing in front of you half-naked next to the bodies I draw" there turned out to be a distance she hadn't expected and hadn't prepared for.

Not shame. Awareness - that he sees her. Not Tess-from-the-party, not Tess-who-jokes - but this one, the home one, the real one, with pasta and porn and strawberries.

"Want tea?" asked Tess. "I have a clean mug. Somewhere."