@lapetitsommeil
Out of all the perks that came with his job, Penn’s favorite was the rare occasions when he got to be a substitute. For once, he got to run the show, even just for a day, instead of being off in a corner taking notes, writing lesson plans, and tutoring people.
Best of all, this time around it was an art class. Pure expression and creativity. No books, no readings, just play. Or at least, that was the way he saw it. Half of these students were clearly taking it just a touch too seriously; overthinking every stroke of a brush.
While he wasn’t about to try and pull anybody out of their comfort zones just yet, there was no harm in giving anybody just the smallest of nudges in the right direction. That was his job, after all, to foster creativity rather than snuffing it out altogether.
One student in particular caught his eye. Not just because she was beautiful -- even though she was, very much so -- but more because of the intense look in her dark eyes as she focused on the canvas in front of her. Like she could see inside its very soul. (Did canvases have souls? Perhaps it was the artist’s job to give them one, he wondered.)
He made his way over to her, moving his upper body back and forth in a slithering motion that would have made Beau proud as he drew closer; making his head bob from one side of her canvas to the other until he was near enough to her.
“Hey, there, Botticelli,” he said, the greeting far more casual than his approach had suggested. The other students were all absorbed in their own work, giving the conversation an air of privacy. “Whatcha workin’ on?”