Date: Sat, 7 Dec 2013 23:20:26 +0700
From: J S <ksigwz@gmail.com>
Subject: Gavin

Gavin

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any
resemblance to any real person alive or dead is
coincidental and unintentional.

CHAPTER I

     I was beyond amazed as I dragged my paint
board and easel into class only to find an
attractive, young face amongst my regular cast
of Picasso wannabes. The day had started as just
another Thursday afternoon painting workshop
that I had been coaching for several months at
the local community center.

     Gavin, as the kid's name turned out to be,
was a handsome sixteen year old boy, not without
some extent of self-taught drawing skills. His
forward planning mum must have calculated that a
painting workshop would fit in nicely amidst his
potpourri of after-school activities.

     The remainder of my cast of Picasso wannabes
being a uniform bunch of middle-aged mums and
retired granddads clutching at anything to
occupy their afternoons with, you'd understand
how this teenager in his crummy white t-shirt
and faded khaki board shorts, which conveniently
revealed a pair of lean, athletic legs peppered
by a soft covering of light-colored hairs,
became the de-facto centerpiece of my classroom.

     Gavin, or Gav as I preferred to call him,
turned out to possess a mild, unassuming
disposition which stood in such a jarring
contrast to his athletic built. He also had a
very attractive kind of vulnerability, a habit
of cocking his eyebrows as he concentrated
wholeheartedly to the task at hand. He had an
innate flair for painting, but he was always
addressing me in the relaxed non-combative
curiosity of someone who attended a class for
pleasure rather than ambition.

     Despite myself, I began to look forward to
Thursday workshops as being the real highlight
of my week. I would find subtle excuses to
praise Gav on patterns well-drawn; I'd put my
hand over his as nonchalantly as I dared, on the
pretext of helping him correct a difficult
stroke. He had a distinctive kind of warmth
emanating from the back of his hand that always
felt electrifying to me.

     If Gav noticed any of this camouflaged,
tender attention I was subjecting him to, he
gave away no sign of acknowledging it, and no
sign of backing away, either. If anything, he
seemed carefree and pleased to be in my class. I
had often wondered whether it was swimming,
track and fields, or team sports, that gave rise
to those well-defined biceps, but being in a
classroom surrounded with savvy mothers and
prudish old men put a lid on my yearnings to
blurt out personal questions or to show uncanny
interest in Gav's well-being.