The Sketchbook 1

I was an art student and every day in the week I would get up and go to the bus station. From there I would get on a bus that took me to the city, taking with me a bag containing art materials: Pens, ink, brushes and paints. I would walk to a building and ascend the stairs to a room where other art students had gathered,  this being the requisite place for our gathering. The room was large and bright with large windows, and contained the following: Drawing boards, easels, and stools, with space for the large drawing boards in shelves. The easels would be gathered in a corner at the end of the class.
But one day a new guy appeared in this room which was used for life drawing, a late enroller on the course it seemed.
He approaches me carelessly, his eyes averted, as though uninterested in me, dismissive of me, his mind on other things. He is not looking at me. If I knew him I would think he disliked me. He seems aggressive and tough, not like an art student, who are sensitive, effeminate, classy; from middle class homes and with refined airs. And he says have you got a spare page in your sketchbook, mouth loose and hanging, eyes not looking at me, as though I were unworthy to look at. He is a ned.
My prize beloved sketchbook, big and plush-black, A3, which is a good size, substantial. Got it with other art materials given free in a pack at the start of the semester. We descended the stairs to a room and, on signing a piece of paper, were given the packs containing drawing implements, sketchbooks, and a small watercolour set. But this is my favourite sketchbook, I'm proud of how professional it looks, I lug it around with me. My pride: For the black cover, the glossy frontsheet, the sturdy cartridge paper.
I am reluctant to hand it to him but do so out of an effort to be polite, to be thought of as generous, gracious. What would these other students do? I emulate them. They have grace, coolness, looks, money. From middle class homes. They have not had to strive, sweat and suffer. They laugh softly and easily, their loves come easily and they mix with one another easily. Sure, I say, handing it to him. It's one page. I can always tear it out.