I should have known when I woke up pleasantly sore in a strange apartment with a man wrapped around me that my life was about to get complicated. It wasn’t going to mean anything , I’d lied the night before when, intoxicated by pheromones and champagne, I let him take me home. As I’d gathered up my clothes and planned my escape I’d assured myself it had been a momentary lapse, that I’d never see him again. Apparently that, too, had been a whopper. Because here he was, on the other end of a Glock 19, and he was pointing it at my chest.

“Police! Don’t move.”
[Read more…]

I had always thought that painting would be my greatest passion. Then I met Rose.

I first laid eyes on her at a show in Paris. She’d come to see my paintings. She never spoke with the artist; she explained when I introduced myself to her. She wanted her critique to be pure, her opinion unvarnished. When we shook hands I held on to hers a little too long.

“Have dinner with me,” I said. “We don’t have to talk.”
[Read more…]