"As the world goes by, as the thread unravels..."

ANDREW BELLE | HORIZON

•

a a l i y a h

I didn't know the first damn thing about art modeling, especially nude modeling. The idea struck me when I was skidding through his website and came across his art modeling request page, and I quickly realized that apparently this was actually a thing.

Maybe it was Talon's words of encouragement last night when she popped a bottle of champagne in my apartment that somehow possessed me with the thought that this was possibly a good idea, or maybe I had just grown so desperate for my old life back that I had sold myself to God knows what.

I guess I figured that since I was rather comfortable with my naked body that I wouldn't find a set of strange eyes staring at it too. Whatever my reasoning was, that shit didn't matter because I was standing in front of Octavio Castellano's studio, pacing back and forth as I confronted my stupid mistake.

"What the hell are you doing?" I whisper-yelled at myself. "You don't know the first thing about modeling and now you're gonna have to strip in front of this weird guy? Wow, Aaliyah, aren't you a fucking genius."

I bounced in one spot, shaking my hands, and hoping that would be enough to permanently get rid of my anxiety. "OK, let's breathe..."

Loudly, I breathed through my mouth and then inhaled sharply.

I softly knocked on the chipped, rustic wooden door and pushed it ever-so-slightly. Soft indie music drifted by and welcomed by ears as I stepped inside and took it all in. It was soothing. Rows and rows of paint lined up against each other on old wooden paint-stained shelves, lit my eyes with color and filled my nose with paint fumes.

The studio was enormous with high ceilings, paneled white windows, and wooden floorboards. Natural light seeped through the window and saturated the room with nimble energies.

With slow, cautionary steps, I looked for any indication of Octavio's presence. Wooden shelves were mounted on the walls, some with books and others with sculptures and artifacts. I stopped at a painting hung near the entrance—blue and yellow rippled into abstract glistening spirals—glass-like.

Heavy footsteps ricocheted off the sprung flooring and I jumped back at the sudden sound.

"Hola, buenos dias." I heard that familiar deep, silky tone that I had heard over the phone the other night. I whipped my head around to the source of the voice so I could finally put a face to the name.

His sun-kissed olive skin and starkly contrasting cerulean blue eyes captured me in a fleeting moment. The man's square jaw was sharp and sprinkles of stubble covered the slight hollowing of his cheeks. His obsidian hair reached just below his ear in loose waves, and it was remarkably shiny like tar. Denim pants with blotches of old paint and a white shirt only halfway buttoned up adorned his lean six-foot-two frame.

I just knew it was Octavio, and I didn't have to ask.

Octavio revealed another door behind him, that led to a room more immersed in natural light. It was filled with stencils.

"Adelante," he said with a welcoming smile, opening the door wide enough for me to enter.

Instantly, I knew he assumed I spoke Spanish. Having lived in New York City for seven years now and my burnt caramel skin and toffee-colored curls were enough for any local to confuse me with a Dominican or Puerto Rican.

"I'm surprised that you found this place, almost everyone gets lost," he said through a laugh. Extending his hand out, I still found myself with no words to say. "I'm Octavio Castellano, and you must be—"

"Aaliyah," I finally spoke, loudly enough with a strong American accent so that he could hopefully hear that I spoke almost to no Spanish.

His eyes lit up.

Shit. What if he recognized me from somewhere? The last thing I needed was for my father's accomplishments to follow me around even to the most obscure jobs.

"Right! You sent me that email on my website," he said, confidently. "Wow," he muttered and in a millisecond his eyes traveled down my figure, analyzing me. I felt like a statue being observed.

It was like a light bulb flashed above him as he moved to grab a sketching book and some pencils from a pencil holder.

Walking further into the room, I assumed my position in front of the stencil as I watched him think pensively with those elusive eyes of his.

"Have you ever modeled nude before?" he asked, unbothered and detached. It sounded like he asked that question possibly once a day.

"Yep," I popped the 'p'.

"OK, cool, so I'd first like to start off sketching you just as you are, and then we can move on from there," he explained with a reassuring nod.

This was definitely going to be harder than I thought. I guess I didn't expect him to be so goddamn good-looking.

"Is there any way I should be standing?" I asked.

"Uh," he hummed, the azure of his gaze shifted to the ceiling for a brief moment. "Not really, just stand in any way you want," he paused and bounced his foot up and down. "So today I'm just going to focus on the..." His hands grabbed at the air. "How do you say?" He clicked his fingers, eyes narrowed in thought. "More of a—full-frame."

"I mean if all I have to do is stand here, then I promise I won't disappoint," I teased with a smirk.

Octavio's lips curled and the tip of his pencil softly touch the paper. "Así que, ¿alguna vez has visto un estudio de arte?"

I blinked, hard and snorted unexpectedly.

"What?" He looked up at me with curious eyes and a playful grin.

A laugh tumbled out of my mouth, and I bit my lip. "I'm sorry, but, I don't speak Spanish at all—I mean I understand some words here and there but, I'm completely useless in that department."

Octavio chuckled, baring his straight white teeth. "Oh, shit, my bad. I thought...you know."

"Don't worry about it, I get that a lot. I've been confused with possibly every South American country—and Haiti sometimes."

"Where are you actually from?" he asked.

That was the dreaded question I'd gotten in all my twenty-five years here on this earth. My ethnicity was always an enigma to those around me, and I had my fair share of small-minded bigots that couldn't fathom someone they just couldn't figure out.

"It's complicated," I said.

"Try me," he challenged me with the lift of his chin.

I raised my eyebrows at his eagerness. "I was born in New York City, to a German and Dutch father and a Portuguese, Cape Verdean mother."

His eyes widened to the size of saucers. "Holy shit. You're basically a human passport."

"A human passport?" I giggled. "I think that's gonna be my next caption."

"Though, I'm sure it gets complicated when you have to define that on legal documents," he uttered.

"Oh yeah, for sure," I agreed with a sigh. "I either put 'Other' or check a few different boxes."

I could hear him applying increasing pressure to the paper, and taking more languid strokes with his hand. Every now and then, he would flick his eyes up at me while drawing simultaneously, and admittedly it was strange having someone pay such meticulous attention to you.

I felt my back begin to stiffen, so I shifted my weight from one foot to another hoping to alleviate the stress. "Where are you from?" I asked, intrigued by the way his accent lightly wrapped around every syllable like a delicate foil.

He wet his lips. "Nah, you make me feel boring," he snickered.

"No, seriously, I've been dying to find out where that accent's from," I retorted.

Octavio lifted the corner of his lip, and there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Guess."

I pushed some loose curls away from my face and looked up at the ceiling in thought. "Uhm," I hummed.

He set his pencil down and folded his arms together, falling back into his seat with an amusing look written across his eyes and mouth.

"Spain?" I guessed, looking for his approval.

Octavio shook his head.

"Ecuador."

He held up one finger. "Nope, one chance left."

I heaved a frustrated sigh. "Oh!" I snapped my fingers and shook my legs with excitement. "Colombia!"

He sounded off like an incorrect buzzer on a game show, and we both erupted into a fit of soft laughter.

"Buenos Aires, Argentina," he finally said. "Nice guesses though. What I was asking before was if you've ever been in an art studio before."

Snapping out of the bewildering trance that just his voice alone fostered, I shoved my hands into the pocket of my short black skirt and tried not to fumble.

"Yeah, why?" I wondered, even though I was obviously lying. The closest to an art studio I had been too was in high school, and it was for thirty minutes because I had realized I was in the wrong class.

"Well, for starters you're standing in front of the dais instead of on it, and when you walked in you looked like you entered an alternate universe," he said.

I rolled my eyes and released a low, humorless chuckle. "And you only tell me this now?"

His hand snuck behind his neck and into his hair, his fingers threading through the silky strands as he stared down at the paper with a boyish smile. When his gaze captured mine, I averted my attention to the city skyline and the sun burning over the towers as if I was caught staring at something I shouldn't have.

Moments of harsh outlining followed and it sounded like a scratching. Octavio rested his head in his hand and after it appeared as though he'd grown exhausted, he stuck his pencil behind his ear.

"Now that I've finished the first outline, uhm"— he froze—"There's really no subtle way of asking you to strip. There's a bathroom for you to change in down the hall, I think today I just want to focus on your upper torso."

That's when I remembered what I actually signed up for. Nude modeling.

Fuck you, Talon.

I nodded, trying to be chill, trying to be cool. Octavio was still focused on the art piece in front of him, correcting his imperfect interpretation.

Following his instructions, I locked the bathroom door and took a long hard look at myself in the mirror. This was like any other photo shoot I've done before, and I've definitely been naked in front of a camera before so why was I nervous? Being in a magazine spread meant that my body was airbrushed, but here I wasn't. Octavio would see everything that I didn't want to see.

Minutes later, I returned to him.

"I can't do this."