Re: Sam/Eames: art class
Eames had patience. It was the sort of thing one cultivated, if you lacked it as a central character trait. Whether he was naturally patient or naturally impatient it didn't matter, darling. It had been a long time since his natural inclination for that meant anything. Sleeping was another matter but Eames filed everything to do with sleep in the same soft, dark place he put everything to do with dreams that weren't clinically proscribed by the clinic. That wasn't relevant either, darling.
"Is he, darling? I don't remember one painter's name from the next. What's his thing like, that you dislike?" But there were no flowers, the name was something that seemed wholly ridiculous to apply to an eyeball which was why he'd done it. Eames's skin was not pale and the washed out color of an insular life. He had a sallow cast which was natural and the look of someone who had been baked in hot sun once upon a time until his body held the memory of it even when his skin did not. He watched his own tones appear on the canvas with interest.
"The answer to why Algernon, is why not? It could be Benedict. In isolation it might be Benedict," he looked at the eyeball now in isolation, and smiled at her. Eames knew importance could be a kernel in someone rather than an old Master riddled in soot and oil from a century or two and she was far too confident to be boring, darling. "I think Benedict might suit it. Him? It's an eyeball, darling, has it established a gender for itself?"
But the eyeball would be a painting, years from now and he believed her.
"I'm not Jake. I'm Eames. And you are?" He held out an impeccably clean hand to shake. Eames' hand was large, the fingertips blunt and the surface of his palm was not smooth, but he looked momentarily urbane. It was probably the clothes that had begun to impress the layer of expensive taste over the blocky form of someone who looked like they probably kicked the shit out of somebody every other Tuesday.