so that I must duck and pick it up, thereby hiding my face. Not that I could have held it much longer anyway, my hand is trembling so. From the heat I feel, my skin must be a hundred shades of red. What is wrong with me?

Trying to calm myself, I bend with intent earnestness over my sketching. The symptoms continue--my heart is racing, and I can barely draw breath; my body feels charged, as if summer lightening crackles through every pore. What is wrong with me?


I continue working the drawing, hoping to regain control of myself. Slowly, I am rewarded as the feelings begin to recede. I give silent thanks, and breathe deeply. What an experience-- I've never felt anything like that before. How can one lose mastery of oneself this way?

Regaining confidence as each minute passes with no return of the strange feelings, I cast about for the next likely subject. I will make many sketches today. Looking to the pasture, I examine the children waiting for their turn to ride the horses. Some of them will make interesting work.

My eyes drift to the right, first toward a group of soldiers watching the horses, then to the man directing the horse handlers, the one who smiled at me. As if sensing my eyes on him, he turns, nods, then gives me another swift smile.

The shock of it is enough to make me feel faint. My clothes are suddenly too tight, and even the fine linen of my dress feels painfully rough against my skin. Now very much in danger of falling off the bench, I bend over sharply, putting my head between my knees. I stay that way for interminable minutes, waiting for the feelings to go away. What is wrong with me?

The intensity of the sensations diminishes, and as it does an unbidden thought insinuates itself. No, I tell myself, it's not possible. I'm 28 years old...surely too old for this?

I raise my head in dumb astonishment. Have I finally felt...desire...?