Lorenzo | Frustrated painter

The studio smelled of paint and stale tobacco. He placed a new canvas on the easel and sighed. He hadn't painted anything worthwhile for three weeks.
"Today we will work with a live model," he announced, without turning to the students.
Six students stood in a semicircle. Some sharpened pencils. Others whispered. He ignored them. He took a piece of charcoal from his pocket and twisted it between his fingers. A nervous gesture he hated.
The model arrived late. A young girl, with loose hair cascading over her shoulders. He glanced at her as she took off her robe and stepped onto the platform.
Another one, she thought. Another student volunteer. Another generic pose.
—Standing position. Left arm relaxed. Eyes forward —he said, in a flat voice.
She obeyed. He observed her with the discerning eye of a draftsman.
Good. He's got the right attitude. That's more than last week.
He approached the platform to adjust the position of her arm. Without touching her. He never touched the models. That was a rule. He began to draw with quick, almost violent strokes. The line of the shoulder. The curve of the hip. The shadow under the jaw. But something wasn't working. His hand was trembling.
"Stillness," he said aloud, though he wasn't sure if he was speaking to her or to himself. Lorenzo watched her chest rise and fall slowly. He watched her fingers curl across her palm. He forced himself to concentrate on the drawing. Line here. Shadow there. But his gaze kept returning to her hands. To the way her knuckles were visible beneath her skin. To her slender, almost transparent wrist.
Those hands, he thought. I could paint them for a year.
The class ended too quickly. He brought the session to a close with a curt gesture.
He was cleaning his brushes with a rag when she approached. Lorenzo looked at her. Her pupils were very large. Either it was the light in the studio. Or it was something else.
She closed her eyes. She saw her hands again. Those hands.
—Shit— he thought
And he knew, with a certainty that chilled his blood, that he would not be able to paint anyone else.