Page 23 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
“Okay, okay, enough talking...” Something within me electrifies, even though I haven’t sipped alcohol. I carefully arrange a variety of colorful snacks on a clean, empty plate, eager for him to sample them later. Once the plate is filled, I gently cover it with another plastic plate turned upside down to keep the treats fresh. With a satisfied glance at my handiwork, I set it aside, ready to turn my attention back to him. “What are the moves you know?”
“Veronica...” Nathan trails, tossing his head back as a groan spurts from his lips. He stands up when I wedge a hand between his, the coldness of his fingers colliding against the warmth of my skin. When we are face to face, he inspects me with the detailing of an artist, looking through the slits of my eyelashes and the glimmer of sweat on my skin. “I’m awful.”
“I don’t need you to be good, I need you to bethere.” Those words leave me without any weight on my chest, making us go through the groups of people to find a secluded corner to spend some time in. Quietly, I find myself separated from the world, lost in thoughts that aren’t my own. “So, dance moves—”
“The robot and I did it when I was a child.”
I chuckle at his words, turning around when we reach a far-away section of the pub. I grasp the edges of his jacket and look up at him with a grin only he can inspire. He’s so different from what I am used to. Lorenzo would have already taken me by the hips and swung me to his will.
“Cuban music is danced with the hips. You have to feel free like you’re boneless or something.” I place my hands on his hips, moving them from side to side and cackling at the stern form of his movements. “Or we can do the robot with our hips if that’s what you’re comfortable with.”
Nathan hides his face on my shoulder, the coldness of his skin long lost to what I imagine is a blush that emanates from his cheekbones. God, I wish the lights weren’t dimmed blue so I could see the shades he creates. “You have to guide me here, Veronica.”
“I’m instructing you!”
“I am sure it’s not just moving hips.”
“Okay, you’re asking for a teacher, and truth be told, I do it without thinking. I’m not a professional dancer myself.” Nathan pulls away, and I curse myself for not running my fingers through his hair. He looks over his shoulder and I follow his line of sight, watching a couple dance. The woman’s back is pressed to the guy’s chest, her hips swinging back. One of his hands is deeply carved on her lower back and she smiles at him.
“It’s like that?” Nathan asks and I hear the restraint in his voice. “I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“You’re the inexperienced one here. We need to find our groove, that’s all.” I tell him and when our eyes connect, I smile at him. He mirrors my actions when I turn around, my fingers between his when his palms spread on my waist.
Nathan exudes a quiet masculinity that captivates without effort. His unassuming demeanor and serene presence draw attention in subtle ways. There’s a hypnotic quality to his stillness, revealing a strength that invites curiosity without grand gestures. I move my hips from side to side, adding twirls to my motions because of the low vibrato of the song and the quick guitar moves. Nathan doesn’t precisely move, so I press my head back, cheek squished to his chest when I whisper against the column of his mouth.
“With ‘azúcar’,” I tell him, our breaths mingling with the closeness. My heart hammers against my chest, staring at the swinging of his Adam's apple when he swallows. He’s at fault for every tremor of my body, caused by his beauty and closeness. Not without recalling how adorable he is right now, lost in a way one would not expect.
“What does that even mean? That’s an ingredient.”
“It means flavor, Nathan.”
“Azúcar is sugar.”
“It’s a metaphor.” Explaining comes easily and he hums, trailing his fingers up from my waist to thread on the edge of my braid. He quickly undoes the tie, sliding his fingers through my hair—softened by the braid—and caressing my scalp with his rough fingers. I move closer to him, sighing deeply when he mirrors my movements. Although a bit awkward, it still brings a smile to my face when he murmurs in my ear.
“I must look ridiculous.”
“It’s fine. I want to dance with you, however way it comes.”
I must be crazy for this man because he brings my hands up to rest around his neck as he lazily spreads his on my waist. “People are staring.”
“Really?” I open my eyes wide and look around to see that no one is staring at us. When I turn to him, Nathan has the biggest shit-eating grin. “You scared me!”
“Oh, so you do get embarrassed...” Nathan responds, pulling our chests together by hugging me closer. He meets my gaze for a moment before adding: “You don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”
“Huh?” I question him, heart racing at his words.
“I know it’s your first time going out with someone after him and, trust me, you have nothing to prove to me or anyone. If they’re staring, let them stare. No one has the right to judge you.” Nathan’s words cage a feeling that I hadn’t realized lived within my chest. I feared getting caught with him as if I still owed someone loyalty. My teeth clenched my bottom lip, until his thumb, with a soft pressure, eased it loose. “Stop worrying. Let’s dance it out.”
“You? Wanting to dance?”
“Only if it’s with you.”
I’ve seen hundreds of brown eyes, but his are different. A profound loneliness clung to him, a silent struggle between the impossibility of letting me go and the necessity of being present. Nathan's gaze held a battle, a fierce restraint against emotional exposure, yet beneath his carefully guided words, a genuine tenderness still shone through.
I shouldn’t have brought him to a place like this, I tell myself, when we’re on the fifth song dancing and we are about to sit down. Manuel Lopez, the son of the owner of this pub, appears without a shirt on—as per usual when he gets drunk—with a girl over his shoulders and a bottle of whiskey on the other. He’s pouring liquids into people’s mouths, and just when he reaches Nathan, he screams.
“Come on, buddy, open up!”
