Inspiration is hard to find, and harder even to keep. I’m a writer, of sorts, so I would know of it. Sitting in front of a blank page, wondering how in the world you’re going to translate your thoughts into words that make sense to others, while also feeling pressured to do it fast because of impending deadlines or a latent feeling of being unproductive, even. It can sometimes be a good motivator, but most often ends up making you feel like shit.

I’ve read books about it, too. Okay, I’ve skimmed books about it. Sigh I’ve skimmed reviews of books about it. Get in the correct headspace, write something that makes sense to you, don’t force it. I get it, Mister Personal-Growth-laureate-of-a-diploma-at-the-University-of-life. But actually doing it is a lot harder than it seems. How much do you wanna bet that that guy has a writing team doing most of the work for him?

That’s partly why I had started drawing in the first place. Writing had been taking such a big place in my life that it had started to feel like a chore, something I had to get done rather than wanted to do. Drawing, on the other hand, felt new and engaging. I could see myself getting better and better over time and saw that as motivation to keep practicing. 

There was something to be said about the physicality of dragging an actual pencil across a page, too. The grit of the lead against the paper as it turned into abstract, and then recognizable shapes. It grounded me, more than typing away on a keyboard anyway, and had brought back some of my missing inspiration. Today had been a rough day even for drawing, however. I hadn’t found an interesting project for me to work on and had decided to pocket my sketchbook and go on a walk. Having ended up in a different part of town I didn’t know as much, I walked into a small café bistro and ordered myself a hot cocoa.

With my book on the table opened to a blank page, pencil in hand, I waited and scoured, although not for more than a minute.

Sitting across from me but a few tables to my right sat a young woman about my age, deeply absorbed in whatever she was currently reading or watching on her laptop. I managed to catch my jaw before it dropped to the floor so much I was subjugated by her beauty. There was something eerie about her presence, about how she held herself. I twirled my pencil between my fingers and without losing any time, and went to work.

I started with the general shape of her face, tracing thin overarching lines into a rounded form, then setting an angle for her chin, a subtle cleft denting its center. Her nose followed suit, giving a proper direction to her visage and let me start working on her eyes. From afar, they were dark, almost black, and intensely focused on the screen before her. Her cheeks had been sprinkled with a few beauty spots, one under her left eye, and another one near her right nostril, which I reproduced in great detail. As for her skin, it was a creamy, smooth beige, halfway between milk with a splash of coffee and green olives. The light bounced off of it when she moved, creating subtle accents and wonderful shades of color. It was truly a shame I had only brought a pencil.

When I lifted my eyes to her again, my heart almost stopped. She had seen me looking. Like a kid caught with its hand inside the cookie jar, I felt my cheeks redden. I pretended to focus on my notebook again for a minute or two, yet when I looked again, her gaze was still set on me. I swallowed hard, her dark eyes piercing me like knitting needles, while I looked for ways to explain myself. I mouthed something I can’t remember and flashed my unfinished sketch at her, tracing invisible lines in the air with my pencil. She seemed to understand, although her eyes still lingered on me, uncertain, evaluating. After what seemed like an eternity, she smirked and turned her attention back to her computer, although visibly distracted by my stare. 

Luckily for her, I was almost done. Shifting my grip on the pencil, I drew thicker, darker lines to mimic the thick mane of black hair that cascaded down her shoulders and (I think) onto her upper back. I added a few details to her eyebrows, as dark as her hair and impeccably done before going back down to her mouth. It had a stern, very serious look, although not of someone angry or displeased. What it showed was more akin to pride than anything else. Unwavering confidence. It suited her perfectly.

She looked back at me and the corner of her lip rose into a subtle smile, narrowing her eyes almost as imperceptibly. She nodded at me, like asking a question. Instead of answering, I grabbed my stuff and stood up, having decided to walk up to her and showcase my art. I kept it against my chest for the time being.

“Hi, sorry for all the staring.” I chuckled, setting my sketchbook face down between us. “Can I sit down?”

She pointed at the chair with her chin, her face unreadable. Then, the most bizarre thing happened. Instead of using her hands, she leaned forwards and used her chin to close her laptop, bringing her face close to the table in the process.

She threw her head to the side to get her hair out of her face. “Was I a good subject?” 

“Outstanding.” I let out in a whisper. As I scanned the rest of her body, I stammered and shook my head. “I… Sorry... Hi, I’m Clark.” Somehow, I resisted the urge to extend my hand towards her.

“Nice meeting you, Clark.” There was a cadence to her speech, like dictated by a silent metronome. Even in her short sentences, I could hear a faint accent. Russian? “Can I see?”

Her dark blue wool sweater fit her like a glove. Sitting with her back straight as a wooden plank, it smoothed itself over the curve of her breasts and the generous shape of her figure, accentuating what nature had bestowed upon her. Delicately knitted motifs crisscrossed across her chest before snaking down and getting lost around her waist where the fabric had bunched up naturally. Around her shoulders, the opposite was also on display, as her sleeves had been either sewn shut or forgotten altogether. At her sides, an inch or two above her breasts, her torso tapered by a noticeable margin into flattened patches where her arms were obviously missing. Although she caught my eye looking at them, she said nothing. 

“Where did you learn to draw like that?” The thickness of the Rs rolling across her tongue sent shivers down my spine. “That is really good.”

“Honestly, just practice.” I shrugged, looking for her approval in the sternness of her expression.

“Do you always draw strangers without their consent?” She whipped her head again, tossing hair out of her face and upper torso. 

I looked for a smile but found none, although I knew she meant no harm. “Only if they’re pretty enough.”

Her eyes narrowed, pushed up by her rising cheeks. She could smile after all. “Cheesy.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” I smiled back, proud of my little effect, before turning my sketchbook around to initial the bottom right of the page. I set down the pencil between us. “I would love for you to sign it.” 

Her smile widened into a smirk. There was a brief scuffle under the table and the sound of a sandal hitting the floor. Then, she tensed her abdominals and lifted her right leg to bring her foot onto the table between us, grabbing the pencil between her first two toes. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, she angled her foot down and signed her name in delicate curved letters. I read it upside down.

“Irina?” I said, inflecting upwards at the third syllable, as if asking a question.

“Irina.” The R rolled marvelously in her mouth.

I ripped the page off and slid it inside her closed laptop. “Do you mind if I help you with your bag, Irina?”

In place of an answer, she gestured at her messenger bag with her chin. Her right foot disappeared under the table and found her sandal again. After standing up and walking around the table, her body in exquisite balance even with her blatantly missing arms, she whispered in my ear.

“Meet me outside. Oh, and pay for my tea, will you?”

I ogled her rump as it walked away, and rushed outside with a feeling I had been looking for everywhere : inspiration.