The Woman in the Photograph by Dana Gynther

much as taking it. Under the hot lights, he became one with the peach, grasping her, then slowly unwound her coil. She turned to him, ready. Ah, the seduction of being a muse.

VI

    â€œWhy don’t we go out tonight?” Lee said, closing the door behind their last client.
    Though she’d been in Montparnasse now for over a month, they’d rarely ventured out of the studio. Ever since she’d moved in, they’d been working in tandem—teacher and student, artist and muse—or rolling in bed together as equals. But they had been doing little else. Lee was beginning to get restless; she needed outside company, new faces, a bit of adventure.
    â€œLet’s! I could make you a toga and bring out the Greek goddess in you. Or cover your head in scarves and make you into a Turkish princess.” With flashing eyes, he wrapped her hair with an imaginary turban. “Or do your makeup. I could shave off your eyebrows and paint new ones on.”
    He was studying Lee’s features, his thumbs gliding down the length of her eyebrows. Lee stared back up at him, mildly entertained and slightly peeved. Kiki had allowed him that luxury, to alter her appearance for photos, films, or just a night out. But there was no way in hell Lee was letting him near her face with a razor.
    â€œI don’t think so,” she said shortly.
    â€œJust an idea,” hesaid, backing off, slightly disappointed. “Not that any of you needs changing, of course.”
    She went upstairs to get dressed. Some of her clothes were still in her trunk; the others were bursting out of Man’s small wardrobe. She pulled out a floral frock with a cutaway back and inspected it; it would do. When she was dressed, Lee added the black feathered skullcap Man bought her in Biarritz—the feathers framed her face on one side, making her look half raven-haired—then went through her jewelry box in search of bracelets. Inside, she found a long gold chain. Meant to be looped around the neck several times, it was at least two yards long. Lee smiled. In the absence of togas or turbans, perhaps this would satisfy Man’s need for theatrics.
    When they were both ready, Lee brought out the chain. She clasped it around her wrist, then attached it to his belt.
    â€œWhat’s this?” he asked, visibly pleased.
    â€œI don’t want my little lamb to go missing.”
    Once on the boulevard, they headed to la Coupole.
    â€œFor its opening night two years ago, they popped fifteen hundred bottles of champagne. What a night!” Man said, quickening his step. “It’s been a popular place ever since.”
    Even from the outside, the nightclub radiated excitement. Two stories tall, it was brightly lit with neon, and automobiles stood in a line out front. Lee squeezed his arm as Man escorted her inside; the head waiter immediately appeared— Bon soir, Monsieur Man Ray. Suivez-moi —and led them to a table under the cathedral-like dome next to the center fountain.
    Lee looked at the people at the nearby tables, crammed together among the painted pillars. A quartet of affluent Americans,swinging half-empty cocktails and long cigarette holders, was slurring loudly about the absurdity of nouns having gender, while a serious mustachioed man was delivering a sermon on writing to a group of young disciples. Next to them, a wide-eyed, provincial family sat ignoring their dinners and staring at those they presumed to be bohemians (“Papa, do you think those girls model nude ?” asked the son, earning a smack from his mother).
    Man barely glanced at the menu. “I always get the same thing here. Onion soup, then roast chicken. It’s so good, I’ve never bothered changing.”
    â€œSounds fine to me. And let’s get some red wine.”
    When they’d ordered, they sat back, sipping wine and smoking.
    â€œAfter dinner, we can go downstairs and dance,” Man said. “They have great