Sitting there on the unworthy stool, I almost want to pull it away and bring in the perfumed couch. But of course I can’t do that, now. You’re comfortable already, fanning yourself in the heat and humidity of the day. The flaps of the tent are still; there is no breeze today, but you are so deserving of one. I can’t bring my eyes away from yours, anyhow. This whole time, the whole three hours I’ve been painting you in portrait, I haven’t been able to draw my eyes from yours. You think nothing of it, of course, as you know I am here to paint you. You must assume I’m to your body by now, with the general sketch of the face done, and in honesty, I don’t know where I am. The canvas must reflect just one eyeball, drawn again and again to perfection - if I were to look down. But I can’t - I can only see your eye, and the left one in particular, and how it is calling my name. I paint and draw and sketch the oval frame of the orb and without a further thought I drop the brush and reach forward to have it for myself. You make no noise in complaint.