Your dress is uncomfortable. The hem is soaked from the river. The bra you’re wearing is starting to poke. A bead of sweat falls down your temple.

“Spencer?” you question.

With his pencil and journal, Spencer is still sketching rapidly. “Don’t move,” he idly replies, not looking up.

It should be flattering to be dating an artist. It’s a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, after all, and you’re being sketched with love and poise. But…Spencer is becoming distant. Focused on his sketches and paintings. Too focused…

“Spence-“

“Stay still. I have to get this tree drawn.”

You furrow your eyebrows, “I thought you were drawing me.”

He hums. “I am,” he responds, “in a moment.”

Well, there are worse things than staring at the water on a Sunday…