Nude Men

spoon.
    For the first time since she sat down, she smiles. She points to the book lying next to my elbow and asks, “What are you reading?”
    “The House of Mirth.”
    “Is it good?”
    “Yes, it’s great. Have you read it?”
    She shakes her head and asks, “Do you work around here?”
    “Yes, not too far away. Do you?”
    “Sort of. What work do you do?” she asks.
    “I’m afraid it’s not very interesting. I work at Screen magazine. I’m a fact checker.”
    “I know Screen. I’ve bought it a few times. It’s a lot of fun.”
    “Thank you. I guess that’s what I should say. What work do you do?”
    “I’m a painter.”
    “Ah! How nice. Is your work exhibited anywhere right now?”
    “Yes.” She pauses. “I work at home.”
    “That must be the best place for a painter to work,” I say, feeling a little confused by her sudden switch of subject. “What type of painting do you do?”
    “People. I paint people.”
    “I love people. I mean, paintings of people. Are they abstract?”
    “No. Well, everything is abstract in a way, isn’t it? But no, my people are not strictly abstract.”
    “So, you paint people. That’s why you said you study people’s features. It’s because you paint them.”
    “Yes, that’s why,” she says.
    “What types of people do you paint?”
    “I don’t really paint ‘types,’ unless you call men a type. I paint men.”
    “What types of men?”
    “I don’t really paint ‘types’ of men, unless being naked is a type. Is a naked man a type of man? Some types of men are almost never naked. Then there are the others, who are also a type, the type who are not almost never naked. Which type are you?”
    I stare at the transparent greenness swaying almost imperceptibly between us. I wonder if there’s an erotic insinuation in her question.
    “Such a thing is hard to know,” I answer. “I never figured it out myself. Is your work exhibited anywhere, or did I ask you that already?”
    “My work is exhibited in Playgirl magazine. Toward the back of the magazine. I get two pieces shown. Sometimes only one, spread over two pages. My work has been appearing for six years.”
    I plunge my spoon into a cubical section of my green gelatin dessert and lift it to my mouth. “So, you paint nude men,” I say, squishing the sweet greenness between my tongue and palate.
    “Yes. And I like your mouth, so I was wondering if... you’d like to pose for me.”
    I grin at her, hoping there’s no gelatin stuck between my teeth. “I’m flattered, but one’s mouth is not a very good representation of one’s naked body.”
    “A mouth is a very good representation. There are clues and signs in a mouth. Will you do it?”
    She gives me that pouting, capricious look, making her upper lip flare out more than ever. Her resemblance to Isabelle Adjani in The Story of Adele H. is striking. I melt. There is nothing I would not do for the owner of that upper lip at this point. I’m usually very shy, but this woman seems like such a good catch for me, and I’m so attracted to her, that I think I will agree to pose for her. At least I can get into her apartment, and then, at the last minute, if I become chicken, I can always change my mind about posing.
    “You want me to pose nude for you?” I ask.
    “Yes I do. I spotted you from all the way over there, remember?” She points to the counter. “I’ll pay you thirty dollars an hour, if it’s okay with you. That’s the standard price. But if you want more, we can discuss it.”
    I cringe at her words. I don’t want to have a professional relationship with her, just a romantic one. I should have accepted right away, before she brought up money.
    “I would love to pose for you,” I say.
    “I know. I’m glad,” she answers. Her voice is soft, and her face delicate and serene. Her hands reach inside her bag. “When are you available?” she asks, handing me her card. “Anytime. When are you?”
    “How about Saturday at six p.m.?”
    “Perfect,” I say, delighted at the late hour she chose.
    “Could I have your card?”
    I jump up in my seat, tap my pockets, and say, “I don’t have one with me right now, but here, this’ll do just as well, if you don’t mind.” I write my name, address, and phone number on the paper napkin under my Jell-O dish. I hand her the napkin, which she takes between her thumb and forefinger, pinkie lifted. I think I detect slight snobbery, but I’m not sure.
    She reads it aloud: