Hanging Loose Read Free Page B

nothing but a pair of shorts and an oven mitt. I watched the soft curves of his back, the flawless skin stretched over lean muscles. The groove of his spine, the two shallow dips of his hips that just barely peeked out of the waistband. I wished I had the guts to ask if he’d let me draw him. Muscles and skin flexed with subtle nuance as he scooped the cookies out of the baking pan. A couple of them went on the small plate that he put in front of me, along with a cup of coffee.
    “Could I draw you?” I asked.
    He looked at me, surprised. “What, now?”
    “Whenever you have time,” I replied, already regretting my boldness. I was making a nuisance of myself, I was sure.
    Jez glanced at the kitchen clock. “I got half an hour before I need to head out. Is that good?”
    “Sure.”
    “How do you want to do this?”
    “Living room.”
    It’s much harder to sit or stand still than most people realize. A seemingly easy pose can become strained after a few minutes. I had Jez lie on the sofa for one pose and stand up for another one. I did quick charcoal sketches. I wished he was nude, but I wasn’t daring enough to ask.
    “Okay, you can move,” I said when time was up.
    “Oh, thank God. My nose itches.”
    “It always does when you can’t scratch it.”
    “So, don’t you normally draw people nude?” Jez asked, walking toward his room.
    I made a choking sound that he apparently took for a yes. He came out of his room, shrugging into a T-shirt.
    “Just ask if you want me to drop trou.” He winked at me, and I felt my face heat up.
    He headed out the door but yelled back, “Could you take those cookies over to Arthur? I need to drive up to Silver Lake. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
    The door slammed closed behind him.
    * * *
    Arthur looked unwell, but his watery, pale blue eyes lit up at the sight of the treats. He immediately started chewing on one. He waved me in, and since he didn’t take the plate, I had no choice but to comply. There was a lingering odor of medicine in the air. I noticed a small oxygen tank in the corner. I took a deep breath and tried to smile. I put the plate on the coffee table while Arthur shuffled out to the kitchen. He came back with two glasses of milk. I don’t like milk, except in my coffee, but didn’t want to be rude. I took one of the offered cookies when Arthur dismissed my protestations.
    We sat at the coffee table in silence for a minute. I cast around the room to look for a conversation topic. It was packed full of stuff—the debris of a lifetime crammed into a one-bedroom apartment. Along one whole wall were bookshelves crowded not only with books, but with all sorts of objects. The other walls were covered with photographs, many of them obviously publicity shots, headshots—all signed.
    I spotted something on a shelf.
    “Is that the Golden Sphinx of Cairo?” I gasped.
    A wide grin spread out on Arthur’s wrinkled face.
    “Yes, it is! I was the set decorator on The Golden Sphinx .” He puffed his chest out a little.
    “That’s so cool,” I gushed.
    I must have just made Arthur’s day, because he lit up like Grauman’s Chinese Theatre on opening night. He walked me to the shelves and let me hold the statuette. It was much lighter than it looked, but of course it wasn’t really made of solid gold. In the film, it was coveted by homicidal men and the equally murderous femme fatale. She was exposed at the end by the gruff private eye who handed her over to the cops despite the crackling sexual tension between them. I sighed. I loved that movie.
    Arthur took my sigh of rapture as a prompt to tell me about his other mementos. He prattled on and on, but I didn’t mind; an inexplicable sense of well-being spread through me. He was like an unexpected treasure chest cracked wide open. Arthur’s sickly look faded, and I bet he enjoyed having an attentive audience. Some of his stories—well, a whole bunch of them—were deliciously gossipy. Evidently there was a