It was not a terribly unusual request for a portrait. A black and white drawing, as realistic as possible: “warts and all” as the client requested.

8pm was a little late to be starting a one-session sketch, but the client offered to pay extra. He was unable to come in working hours due to his work but was willing to stay as late as possible.

I didn’t bother pointing out that it was actually my willingness to stay late that was the issue. Mostly because the money offered had already solved it.

So I sat in my studio at 8pm, sipping a coffee that had been a drinkable temperature an hour ago.

He came precisely on time, the sharp knocks on the door preceded by the sound of commanding steps. He was handsome, which is always disappointing for me. Symmetry and smooth skin were harder to capture. No familiar landmarks to make the drawing more recognisable, no obvious shapes to pluck from his outline. I shook his hand and asked him to take his seat, already lit.

I offered water, which he politely declined. So we began.

An outline, first. As I drew the basic oval and lines, I asked what made him want his portrait. He seemed surprised at the question and tried to speak without moving. I assured him it was part of the process and that he could indeed move around, within reason.

For me, the process has never involved silence and a perfectly still subject. As I memorise the details on a person’s face I need to know how the parts move together: is there a dimple when he smiles? A worn line in the forehead when he frowns? Eyes that glisten too quickly when distressed?

But first we start with the outline.

The client had meant to do this for a while, he told me. An impending birthday was a convenient deadline, so he made the appointment. I asked how soon the deadline was, and was told midnight. I joked that it was a good thing he hadn’t wanted oil paints. I decided not to ask his age. Anyone with akin that clear took pride in their appearance, which usually meant they’d make me guess how old they are.

A little more detail next: features marked in place, but not yet his. Where was he from?

He had lived in this city for years, but he didn’t call it home. He wasn’t sure he ever would. His original home was long gone, developed over, renamed, forgotten. He gave me the name of a town, but I cannot remember the word. German, perhaps, although he had no accent.

I began to bring in more details, confident lines covering grey outlines. Was this portrait for himself, or a gift?

It was for himself. A birthday gift of sorts. He laughed then, and I quickly took in the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, putting them onto the paper. He did not show his teeth when he smiled, I noted. I drew him with a closed mouth, one side raised. It was easy enough to get him in a good mood in conversation, but I needed to concentrate, so I brought out my crowd-pleaser. As the client browsed through the folio of pet portraits I had been commissioned for, I shaded in high cheekbones and ears that came to a slight point.

At the height of his joyful review (a white, fluffy cat in a jacobean ruff) I asked as casually as possible if he wanted any scars left out. He paused, but then nodded. Fortunately I had already captured his expression, as after that he placed the folio down and stared silently at the wall behind me. I shaded in the scars on his neck.

A few more silent minutes and the portrait neared completion. I mentioned that I needed to check something, and reached under the table to grab a hand mirror. The client stood bolt upright, demanding to know what I was doing.

I needed the mirror, I explained, to see the reverse of the portrait. Some imperfections are only visible when I can see them in a new orientation. He relaxed, but did not sit back down. He told me to go ahead, and that if I was nearly done he would like to stretch his legs. I acted as though everything was perfectly normal while the client went to browse my in-progress paintings at the far wall. Not wanting to face away from the stranger approaching my work, I held the portrait in front of my chest and turned the mirror towards myself.

The shading was a little uneven under the left eye, I decided. The rest seemed fine. It was a quick fix, which I made while in the background the client picked up a palette knife that had fallen on the floor.

I used my phone to take a quick photo of the portrait on its easel. I had agreed verbally that I would not share the image, but it had been months since I finished a live drawing and I wanted to check my progress. I put my phone back and called to the client that the portrait was done.

He turned away from my supply desk and walked over surprisingly quickly. The client had me place the portrait in a sleeve, not even looking at it. He told me he was certain it was well done, judging by my previous work. There was an awkward silence then, as he stared at me intently. At first I thought he was waiting for me to request my payment, then his eyes slid to my neck. I remembered how dirty my hand were from the graphite and assumed I had gotten some on my neck. It must look like a bruise, I thought. That would explain the sudden awkwardness.

Fortunately I had the perfect diffusion. I told the client he could put the money in the jar by the filing cabinet. It was a large plastic jar, the peanut butter pretzels label covered in masking tape. As I walked to the sink, I laughingly said that my husband had made the label. I thought that would reassure him that I was not in any peril.

I still have that jar. The drawings of stars surrounding one small and two large stick figures are faded, but the words are legible: future artist fund.

I heard the rustling of notes in the jar as I washed my hands. When I turned around to ask if the client wanted his portrait signed, I found no one there. There were no footsteps, no goodbye. Just an open door and five times my agreed price in cash.

It was hours later, lying sleepless beside my husband that I decided to look at the photo of the portrait. I picture of a handsome, smiling face and in the background, where the client had been standing, an empty space and a palette knife almost imperceptibly raised off the desk.