LATER THE SAME DAY, though more pale, gaunt, I’d returned to the scene. The models—real gentlemen—lined together like suspects. They gave short, brisk waves and shouted blithe catchphrases as they disrobed down to the sock garters. One in particular, I recall. His head dipped forward, lids dark, lips heavy. I began the study in ink. I was looking through thick, fake lashes, courtesy of another Miss, a more sophisticated version of Yours Truly. Something was wrong, and wrong again. Things kept coming out people. So you gather, I gave it another thought.
And from there the scene progresses, a standard affair. Plump tears hit the page and everything runs everywhere, streaking. I turn my page on its side, though to basically the same effect. All around, the studio is dark, except for the spot of light where the subject, twisting lightly, offers a shrug and a soft smile. So I’d taken a loss, so and so.
Years after I bumped into him on the street. He was shrunk within a dark coat, and had changed his eyes and mouth.