Painting

"Here…"

He handed me something huge and square-shaped, wrapped as a gift. I couldn't tell what it was.

"What is this, Sir?"

He was my art teacher. A smoking hot one. I wanted to paint him one day.

"Open it," he simply said.

I unwrapped it and I saw myself. Literally.

It was a painting of myself.

I asked, "Did you paint this for me?"

He stared at me. "Do you know what's the most intimate expression of a painter's admiration?"

I could give a lot of possible answers, but I didn't and waited for him to answer himself. We weren't in class so I thought I was allowed not to participate in his sudden recitation test.

"Painting someone's face without any reference," he said. "Purely the memory. You'll have to memorize the features, every inch, every line, and curve. When someone paints you that way, that means that person is intimately in love with you."

"Uh?"

I was stoked but at the same time confused. I needed to hear more. However, instead of explaining, he stood up and intended to leave.

"Sir!" I called him. "This painting… is this your confession of admiration? For me?"

It took him a few seconds to answer. Finally, he responded.

"No."

His answer confused me even more. I was disappointed.

I hang my head low, embarrassed and hurt by his answer. I thought our feelings were mutual.

I guess not–

"It's a love confession."

Immediately, I looked up to meet his eyes.

What did he say?

"I already liked you since that day you stepped foot in my office to ask for admission to my class."

"But–"

I was out of words. It felt good that we liked each other, but…

"You're married. You told the class…"

He smirked. "Yes."

Is he suggesting we engage in an illicit affair?

Then he added, "Two years from now maybe. Or three? Depends on my bride."

I couldn't hide the confusion anymore. My forehead crumpled.

"So, what? Are you married or not?"

His eyebrows naughtily moved. "Not yet. I still have to ask your hand for marriage."

"Huh?"

And I died when he grinned widely.

He's fucking messing with my head!