save-me-chpt4

The next day...

          "Do you remember we used to sing, sha la la la la la la la la la la dee-dah," I sang, twiddiling my pencil against my sketchbook. I was back in the studio, watching Bruce and Zac going over some lyrics that he (Zac) had been working on. But my mind was far away from the quiet, clean room of Gunner Studios. I was still reeling from the kiss Isaac and I had shared yesterday. A pair of strong hands tickling my waist brought me back into reality.
          "Morning brown-eyed girl," Isaac grinned, hugging me from behind.
          "And good morning to you too, loser," I playfully swatted him on the back of the head.
          "So what's in the sketchbook?" he asked, leaning over my shoulder to get a closer look. I snapped my book shut.
          "Things that you will not be seeing. My sketchbook is off-limits." Isaac promptly snatched the book out of my hands and held it above his head, far from my reach.
          "You bastard! Give that back!" I jumped for my book, only to have it held furthur away from me.
          "Just let me look at it. I won't show it to anyone else."
          "No. My drawings are very personal."
          "Come on. Please?' He flashed me the most gut-wrenching puppy-dog eyes, I had no choice.
          "Fine then." I sat back down in my chair, shooting disgruntled glares at him. He followed my lead by pulling a chair up next to me.

          Isaac slowly leafed through my book, pausing every now and then. He stopped at a recent sketch of two lovers in tears, holding each other.
          "Oh God, why did you have to stop at that one? It's the worst piece I have ever done." I hid my face in my hands, embarassed by my lack of ability.
          "What's so bad about it? It's beautiful," he commented. "You can almost feel their desperation and vulnerability, but there's also a feeling that somehow everything will be alright." He grinned. "Hmm, drop-dead gorgeous, smart, great voice, great guitar player, amazing artist and fabulous kisser. What is there that you can't do?"
          "You, you think I'm a good kisser?" No one had ever said that to me.
          "'O, how ripe in show/Thy lips - those kissing cherries - tempting grow!/That pure congealed white, high Taurus' snow,/Fanned with the eastern wind, turns to a crow/When thou holdest up thy hand. O, let me kiss/This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!'"
          "'A Midsummer Night's Dream' am I right?"
          "Yep. Definetly Shakespeare's best comedy."
          "Speaking of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'," I paused, trying to gather my courage, "I have a couple of tickets for the Bard On The Beach's production of it Friday night. Would you be interested in going with me?"
          "I'd love to."