Sometimes she's 'that cute little girl at the back.' More often, they say she's weird, with her costumes and ever-changing styles. But despite her loud clothes, she's a quiet girl, so when she overhears them, she blushes, lowers her eyes, and keeps walking. She knows they're right, and she's strange for dressing up, but she likes it, so however much she blushes, and makes excuses, and apologizes, she won't stop.

They've been drawing fruit for a week, and Mine's bored with it. They were drawing glasses on velvet drapes before that, and that was alright. Her wine glasses tended to be a bit lopsided, and didn't have much depth, but she liked drawing the fabric, and the velvet in her drawings was beautiful and perfect. The teacher said it looked like it was about to spill off the page if the sketchbook was jostled. "Fix those glasses," she said in her kind, teacher-like way, "and you'll really have something."

But the fruit... the fruit was boring. It was round and colorful, and that was it. "No, no, Mine," the teacher kept telling her patiently, "look at it. It's not round at all." Mine thought it was close enough, so what did it matter? Still, fruit aside, she enjoyed this class, so she was only a bit downcast as she set up her sketchpad and pencils and prepared for another day full of fruit.

"Good morning class," the teacher called from the front of the room, her expressive voice contrasting sharply with her plain clothes. Mine wished the teacher would dress a bit more like she acted: she was certain sensei's boyfriend wouldn't keep blowing her off if she did. Or she'd find a better boyfriend. "I know it's a bit of a change from fruit, but we're going to start life studies today." Trees, Mine thought in resignation. Or someone's pet cat. 'Life studies' was, after all, such a general term, and a class that struggled with fruit couldn't possibly be ready for people. "Our usual model quit, and his replacement was only available this week, so... oh!"

"The usual dressing gown was so plain, I brought my own," announced a voice from the doorway. Mine, and every other member of the class, jerked around to look at the speaker. She had an impression of pale skin and long, silky hair, but what held her attention was the dressing gown: it was gorgeous.

Rich plum silk had been personally tailored and hand-sewn into a masterpiece that put shame to the name 'dressing gown'. Its lines were perfect; the seams sat just so; the cut drew the eye along the length of its wearer's graceful limbs, smoothing out every imperfection. Glossy black and purple threads were embroidered into the fabric, creating swirling, elegant patterns that emphasized the perfection of the shape underneath the fabric.

Mine was in love. She squirmed in her seat, waiting for the model to take their place on the stage, so that she could start drawing that perfection that had been so crassly called a dressing gown. How could anyone call that piece of art something so common? she wondered.

"Oh, Ayame-san," the teacher said, blushing so hard even her giggle was pink. "Welcome. If you could... that is... on the stage?"

"Of course, sensei." Ayame-san's voice was as smooth as the silk of the robe. "I'll just sit here, then." Ayame-san sat on the teacher's desk with a charming smile. Elegant legs were stretched just so, graceful arms artfully arranged, the top of the robe allowed to fall away to reveal pale shoulders and a long expanse of perfectly sculpted chest.

A glance around the room showed Mine that every single student was blushing as much as the teacher. "He's so handsome," a girl near her breathed. A guy a few seats away sounded strangled when he gasped, "That's a guy?"

For the first time, Mine actually looked at the model. The bishonen reclined on sensei's desk was, she realized, more than just a frame for that work of art he'd crudely termed a dressing gown: he, too, was a masterpiece. More than that, she realized, he'd chosen a pose that not only showed himself off to his full advantage, but the robe as well. Maybe he wasn't so bad, if he knew how wonderful the garment was.

"Feel free to begin," Ayame-san said breezily, because the teacher didn't seem able to say anything.

That evening, Ayame took advantage of Sakura-sensei's distraction to look through the students' sketchbooks. Here was one that highlighted his hair, here one that centered on his eyes. Another played up the bared expanse of his chest. His mouth twisted slight, although a watcher wouldn't have been able to tell if it was from amusement or contempt.

He stopped on one sketchbook. It was almost like he was absent from the drawing; the man in the sketch was only a hazy, elegant outline behind the richness of the dressing gown. The artist had caught the way the embroidery played with the light, and how the expensive fabric pooled so beautifully. "I think I'm in love," he murmured.