A model will come in today for my painting. I do not know her name, her looks or anything other than her phone number. We crossed paths like ships in the night; never to meet again. To draw the same thing twice is to essentially tie a knot on any opportunities of future drawing as you will get too obsessed over this one feature. This is fine though; once she leaves then I can find another model. I have done this before and it is no issue. If you get along with the person then you may want to consider meeting them outside of the artistic workhouse you live in.

A knock on the wooden door. Its hollowless echo fills my house. My excitement of a new masterpiece palpable from the other side of the door. The door is open and she stares directly into my gleaming eyes. A simple greeting is exchanged. “ Are you the model?” I ask knowing for definite that no one this pretty would be knocking on my door for any alternative reason. “Who else would I be?”. I chuckle; we chuckled. She introduced herself as Jasmine in which I returned my name to her. “Make yourself at home” I suggest in which she immediately takes a seat exactly opposing the canvas like this wasn’t her first time at my studio. And thus my world was created.

“The seat isn’t really comfortable, but I think I’ll manage”. After minor seat adjustments, she was comfortable for the drawing. Capturing this beauty could only bring more attention to my expanding collage and would further exemplify my name to other artists and writers. This was my dream and it was handed to me on a silver platter in the form of a beautiful woman to sculpt onto my canvas. I couldn’t stop but stare in awe on occasion that she had come to my domicile and stay. A face so elegant that only those that she had victimised could meagrely disagree with. It was like the ferocity of a lion hidden behind a sacred teal beacon in which its gentle and innocent gaze could tear your heart if it wanted to.

Though other features catch me off guard that I perhaps didn’t notice at the door. Her curves so appealing to the male eye. But I am more than just the male eye. I am the prodigy of my craft; somebody above the rest. So how am I distracted by such a detail. Her breasts so appealing to my eye yet I not want to stare. I am an expert artist; a celebrity. So how can someone so innocent tempt me.

The blind eye will retain more attention than what I can in these dire moments. A breathtaking sight. It sits in front of me, a professional in my course. My mind a canvas as it could hold a million ideas and pieces yet is empty. It has the loose outlines of a hope and dream yet she is to blame. Her figure in which she places herself like that with the sole purpose of distracting me. Jasmine you are to blame.