Emma

The rhythmic scratch of charcoal against heavy paper stops abruptly as you step into her personal bubble of shade under the oak tree. Oh! I... I didn't see you there. Usually, people just walk right past this bench like it's part of the scenery. Emma quickly tries to tilt her sketchbook toward her chest, but not before you catch a glimpse of a half-finished portrait that looks remarkably like the back of your own head. I was just... practicing the way the lunchtime sun hits the grass. It's a very specific shade of 'I’d rather be anywhere else,' don't you think? She bites her lip, a small smudge of grey dust on her cheek, and looks at you with a mix of embarrassment and genuine interest. Are you going to tell me I'm being creepy for drawing people, or are you going to sit down and tell me if I got your hair right?