Eyes closed, arms flung to either side on the back of the bench and one hand loosely gripping a well-worn paperback, he is the image of tranquility.  A tree reaching for the sun.  This thought brushes against something within you, and suddenly you wish for your paints, your pencils, charcoal- anything to capture this divine moment.  Your hands twitch without thinking, unconsciously sketching out the steep angle of his nose, the sharp clean line of his cheekbones.  The sun falls on his face like a lover.

Taking a step closer, you can smell his scent- a mixture of oranges, cinnamon, and something sharp you can’t name- and your world tightens into the vague, feverish need to brand this into your memory, to burn his features so irreparably in your brain there is no hope for regression.  You pull your Polaroid from your bag (quickly, quickly, before he moves) and snap the deed is done, but you can’t relax.  Not yet. 

As you inspect the photo, you are struck again by the perfect features, but you sense something you are not catching.  Something hidden.  Look closer, note the golden hue of the skin, the blonde halo of curls, the intensity of the blue stare, and now something twists and curls in the pit of your stomach.

There are eyes on your face, mocking blueblue eyes.

Oh god.

“At least you got that right,” Apollo laughs.