flash fiction exercise

    My knee itches. Twenty students, hidden by their easels, watch my fingers twitch as I stand on a wooden crate with my body contorted, trying to pose interestingly enough for them to paint. This week, I have a sheet of champagne colored silk draped over my head, resting on my outstretched arms, creasing just enough to challenge the amateur artist. It's been a bit over an hour of inactivity now, my body only shifting when I take too deep a breath. My muscles have gotten used to this temporary atrophy; complete stillness, three hours, twice a week, has been part of my routine for nearly two years now. The students change, but the poses seldom do. Today I have to do my least favorite set, the Greek postures. During their ancient and classical units, I get to sit motionless in a chair, or stand with my hands placed naturally by my side, hip jutted; the Greeks, though, were far too dynamic for my taste. 
    I get paid double for posing in the nude, so I request it even when it isn’t required. I tell the professor that it's for the students’ learning, that they need to master the contours of the body before they can cover it up, but she’s been seeing through it since my eyes lit up a the idea of doubling my pay. Some students can't handle the nude posing. I can always tell, their eyes flitter between my chest and the canvas too quickly for them to get a good enough view. Their finished paintings show it far too clearly as well. Perfect attention to detail on my face, hair, neck, shoulders, then a band of unshaded, barely attempted breasts that closer resemble a lowercase w. At least the clock is in my view today.