“I know you don't understand what I do."
"That... might be true," he admitted. He touched the top of Manor House's roof with his right index finger. "But that does not mean I do not find it fascinating."
I watched as he traced over every single line on the page, from top to bottom, not skipping over any part of it, with deliberate care. The house. The lake. The barely intimated trees blooming as rough graphite swirls on either side of the page. The memories of his large hand covering mine as we explored Instagram together--- the way my hands had looked pressed up against his chest in the Nordstrom dressing room--- rose unbidden, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.
I'd always felt my art was an extension of my innermost self, and the sight of his large, graceful hands touching every single part of this early drawing felt almost unbearably intimate.
"What do you find fascinating about it?" I couldn't tear my eyes away from the sight of his hands touching my work. I felt moments away from melting into a puddle at his feet.
"All of it." His hand left the page. I felt him withdraw as much as saw it and exhaled for the first time in what felt like minutes. An unexpected, indescribable feeling of emptiness coursed through me. "I do not claim to understand what you see when you draw and build these things. But the intricacy of your detailing suggests that whatever it is, it is big and deliberate. This is intentional. It means something to you. I cannot help but respect it.”