Fearless by Annie Jocoby Page A

dressed and leave if she would like.
    “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll just get dressed and show myself out.”
    “Okay,” I said, feeling like a jerk that I wasn’t going to be able to show her out myself. But I had to get everything packed up, and I didn’t want to keep her. She seemed rather eager to be on her way, and I assumed that she had something important to do. She appeared to be somebody who generally had important things on her agenda.
    She got dressed and then came out from behind the dividers. “Well, it was good to meet you,” she said, holding out her delicate hand again.
    I sh ook her hand and nodded. Felt like a jerk again. Truth be told, she might have thought me laconic, but I really was tongue-tied. I had never been around a woman who captivated me quite this much. I just hoped that she didn’t think that I was some kind of a quiet loser type.
    She smiled and opened the door and disappeared through it.
    And I sat down on the couch and put my head in my hands. I was finally able to acknowledge my pounding heart and butterflies that were dancing around my insides. I was going to have to pull it together if this project was going to be successful.
    Pulling it together was going to be more difficult than I had originally thought.

Chapter Eight
    Dalilah
    Well, that was interesting. Luke was not quite what I was expecting. I mean, I didn’t really know exactly what I was expecting, but I guess that I wasn’t imagining a guy who would be so…young. He wasn’t much older than me. And he was really a cute guy. Loved the dimples, and the sandy blonde hair that didn’t quite behave. He tried hard to make it all lay down, but he still had a few tufts here and there that went every which way. Which was kind of adorable, really. He was tall and lean and had eyes that weren’t quite blue, or green, or hazel, but a combination of all three. Depending on how the light hit, they would change color, so I wasn’t quite sure how to describe them. Except to say that they were beautiful.
    But I wasn’t quite sure how to take him. He was so quiet. I knew that was partially because he was concentrating, and he was a consummate professional. That was plain, even though his studio left much to be desired. Not that it was uncomfortable accommodations, but it was apparent that he was a squatter. The fainting couch was a nice touch, though. I wondered if he got that for himself¸ or Nottingham had sent it over. It seemed so out of place in the grungy surroundings. Like a Victorian lady in the middle of squalor.
    I found myself feeling eager about actually seeing him again, which was unusual for me. I didn’t feel excited about much anymore, it seemed. My senses had been so dulled for so long that the feeling of anything other than utter boredom was an alien one for me.

Still, the feeling was still nascent, undefined. It wasn’t quite enough to make me feel excited and alive just yet.
    Excited and alive…those were two words that I hadn’t used, in my head, to describe myself since I was young and idealistic and composing my cutting-edge art. I used to get the feeling that I couldn’t wait to get to my canvas, because there were so many ideas that were in my head, I just had to get them out. I was so prolific, I could complete three paintings in the span of a few weeks, sometimes days. I wanted to tackle different mediums, including sculpture. I also wanted to try some fusion, blending urban expressionism with some of the more traditional genres. I was so creative then that I felt like I had heightened senses. Everything around me was magnified, and I drew my inspiration from the most banal things.
    I used my art as my voice, to show my sensibilities to the world. To make commentary about the injustices that I perceived, and about some of the dichotomies that were inherent in our society, yet were constantly ignored. I juxtaposed images that were related to poverty, and blended them with images that were