Nude Men

three entire wonderful days of peace before my next stupid dancing magic lesson.”
    “No excuses. Come on now,” says Henrietta in a high-pitched, nanny, Mary Poppins voice.
    Sara leaves, her cheeks and lips red and shiny, shooting dark-blue glances at her mother.
    Henrietta says to me, “Sara has exquisite taste. She always manages to find the perfect position for my models. And she knows precisely what props to use.”
    “You mean you always let her see naked men?”
    “Of course.”
    “How old is she?”
    “Eleven.”
    I decide to change the subject, not wanting to seem critical of her. We talk of pleasant things. After an hour, she tells me that the painting is finished, or at least that she can finish it without me. She says I can come and see it next Saturday, when it is completely done and dry. I feel sad, afraid that she intends our next meeting to be our last.
    Then I remember I wanted to ask her what she’s going to do with her painting of me.
    “I know I’m not very good-looking,” I say. “Why did you choose me?”
    She smiles kindly, probably at my modesty, and says, “I have my perfect models, which I use for the magazine, and I have my imperfect models, which I use for artistic reasons. I find that painting imperfect models is a much more interesting and intelligent thing to do. It is a way of admitting the defects of life.” She stops abruptly and then says, “I’m sorry. I just realized this may have been hurtful to you. I apologize.”
    “I wasn’t hurt at all.” This is not true. I was hurt. She chose me as an imperfect model. She chose me to be a representation of the defects of life. I am lying to her because I want her to keep talking, to say all the horrible things that are on her mind, so I’ll know from the very beginning what she really thinks of me. I try to act relaxed and cheerful.
    “Could I see portraits of your imperfect models?” I ask. “Sure.”
    She leads me to the other end of her living room and takes paintings out of enormous cabinets. She leans them against the wall. Some are very funny. They are all much worse than I am, which depresses me.
    “Do you think I look as bad as they do?” I ask glumly.
    She smiles slightly and says, “No. I’m changing my style, moderating it, using more subtle subjects.”
    I feel better. I think this is a good time to ask her out. Even though she has a daughter (which doesn’t change my feelings for her at all) and may also have a husband, she also may not, so I might as well try my luck. She doesn’t seem to be living with anyone, but of course one can’t be sure.
    Before I came over today, I thought a lot about asking her out, so I know exactly what I’m going to say.
    “Would you like to go and see a movie with me?” I ask.
    “Ah! I’m glad you brought it up,” she says. “I wanted to talk to you about that type of thing exactly.”
    I raise my eyebrows nervously and resist the urge to ask something that might sound stupid, such as “What type of thing?” So I remain quiet. I bet she’s going to tell me that she doesn’t date her models. Or on the other hand, maybe she feels I took too long to ask her out. In any case, if she accepts my invitation and wants me to choose the movie, I chose one already. It’s Spanish, with English subtitles, about a toreador caught in a love triangle. Nice and intellectual. Nice and artsy. It’s called We Are the Taurus.
    She says, “One of the reasons I decided to speak to you that day, in the coffee shop, was that I wanted you to meet a friend of mine. I think you’ll like her.”
    I don’t understand what she’s talking about. Does she want to match me up with someone other than herself?
    “Her name is Laura,” she continues. “She’s performing tonight at Défense d’y Voir, a little club. We could have dinner there and go to a movie afterward.”
    “She’s a singer or something?” I ask.
    “No. A dancing magician.”
    I frown. “Like Sara’s lesson?”
    “Yes. Laura is Sara’s instructor.”
    I wish I could ask, “What is a dancing magician, by the way?” But I don’t allow myself to, because I’m afraid the answer might be too obvious, like: a magician who dances. I wonder if the little scenario that took place earlier between Henrietta and her daughter wasn’t arranged solely for my benefit, to pique my curiosity or something, which it did. Maybe it was supposed to make me think: Wow, I am going to meet someone who does what Sara begs her