The Weight of Rain by Mariah Dietz Read Free Book Online Page A

wasn’t used, but now, I realize it must have been used by previous nannies.
    “Okay, um, I found this old application, and here’s just some paper.” Kashton passes me several sheets that I set on the edge of the counter. “Sorry, I forgot a pen, hang on.”
    “That’s okay, I have one.” I dig through my bag, grabbing a handful of long cylinders to see what I’ve managed to catch, and sift through several pieces of charcoal and a couple of pencils. I drop them back in my bag and fish again, grabbing a new handful that has several colored pencils, another piece of charcoal, and a pen. I hold on to the pen, drop the other items inside, and look up to see Kashton watching me.
    “Kenzie said you go to PSU for art.”
    “Yeah.”
    “That’s cool. Do you practice art? Or are you learning about it?”
    “Both.” I shift my weight so I can lean against the counter. “I’m studying art history as well as taking several classes with the creation of art and restoration.”
    “No shit. Maybe I can see some of your work sometime? I keep wanting to have a mural done out in the shop.”
    I smile because I can tell he’s saying this out of obligation, and turn my attention to the papers.
    “You don’t have to fill them out now. Just get them back to me when you have the chance.”
    “Alright, I’ll get them back to you tomorrow.”
    “Thanks, I would appreciate it. Sorry to start your shift with this…”
    “Don’t sweat it. I completely understand.”
    He smiles and then rubs a hand over the back of his neck once more before he turns to head out the front door.

 
    “W HAT ARE you doing?”
    Turning to Charleigh as she comes through the door of my studio apartment, I look over her outfit that is overdressed even for her. “Homework. What are you doing?”
    “I thought we were going to that dollar cinema tonight for the three showings?”
    I bring a hand to my face with a near silent groan. “Oh, Charleigh, I completely forgot! I’m sorry. Let me change really fast and we can go.”
    “No problem. If we miss the first movie, I won’t mind. It’s not really something I care about,” she says, coming around to sit on the couch that butts against the end of my bed and extends just into our small kitchen.
    “You’re drawing him again.” Charleigh’s words are quiet, as though she only intended to think the words.
    I stand from my stool and clear my throat before flipping the cover of my large sketch book closed. “No, these are old, actually. I was just working on some shading techniques with colors. You know, since I usually stick to black and white.” My answer is only a partial truth. I truly found the unfinished sketch when I was looking for something to motivate me. You often hear about writer’s block in the art world. What you don’t hear about very often is that artists who sculpt, paint, draw, and create, also face these same empty stretches where nothing holds our attention, or seems adequate nor inspiring. I’ve been facing this stretch of black for several weeks—since I met him at that party in July. Today I saw an old sketch of his eyes, the shadow of his brow, and the slight bridge in his nose, and all I could see was him as I put my charcoal to the paper. It was his hands that I was working on when Charleigh arrived. I am amazed at the details I can remember about him when I can’t remember something as important as his name. Nonetheless, some of these details seem more significant. I can recall the line of his jaw, the way his hands were stained from working outdoors, his lips that curved into an uneven smile, and the scar that carved a long path up his forearm. Yet even those details pale in comparison to what I can remember about how he made me feel. I have stored to memory his warm breaths against my cheeks and the solidity of his muscles as he flexed while inside of me, and the exquisite way he seemed to know exactly what I wanted and needed without me ever giving