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.”
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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.”
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The leaves in the trees fluttered in protest as a fierce rumble of thunder shook the mountains. Lightning split the rapidly darkening sky, opening it up. Rain poured down hard and fast, stinging my exposed skin. The inn where I was staying was a good three miles behind me, but up ahead was a covered bridge. It promised shelter, refuge from the storm.

The white cotton dress I was wearing had become drenched, transparent, and was molded to my body. I broke into a run. The sound of the slap of my sandals against the pavement, the smell of the surrounding pines, and the feel of the cool rain in the middle of the hot summer day took me back to a time when my life was simple and uncomplicated.
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