'Not sleeping, not dreaming' by Sarah Masters

I lean my back against the oak and try to slow my breathing. The sky’s violet, clouds like bruises. I squint through sweat and the cloud shows a thigh, a belly, a breast.

Not a place to be on your own. The last of the sunlight flicks through the leaves. A knife, I think. Or a trophy. That’ll be the day. I’m just lightheaded from running. A breeze catches a bank of leaves and it lifts and separates. I step forward.

It’s a week later and the sports hall’s been spritzed into a gallery, every wall crowded with nudes. Mine’s there, in the corner. Paul’s stopped in front of it.  “Poor cow,” he says. “It’s not exactly a compliment.”

Sarah our life model couldn’t give a shit, she’s just glad to be warm and dressed. “It’s interesting,” she says.

“It’s visceral,” says Thelma, who paints buttocks into landscapes.

“It’s something else,” says Paul. He’s staring at the thigh growing out of the leaves.

I don’t need to look, to see the face turned away, the hand stretching through the soil, fingers tense. The glimpse of a belly, a breast. Not sleeping, not dreaming.

“You’ve cracked it,” says Paul.

I know.

My painting will be on the college programme next week. Perspectives of life. I step forward to collect my prize.