As before, Lander left his clothes on the floor, and I silently thank God for his bad habits. I pull out the drawing of the biker, Cries in Rebuke . . . such an odd title, and he seemed to be so deliberate in the way he chose it, taking a minute between writing each word; Cries, and a minute later, in, and a minute after that, Rebuke. Yes, my Lander is an odd one. But I don’t really care about the drawing of the biker, so I carefully put it back in the coat pocket and take out the one he drew of me. In it, I’m lying on my side on the floor, one leg draped over the other to hide my nakedness from the waist down. He’s covered my chest with a kind of ornate, jeweled bra or bikini top. It looks a little retro, like what might have been worn by an exotic dancer in the first decades of the twentieth century. On my head is a headdress perched way back on my skull, the way you would wear a tiara. Except this hat looks almost Asian in its curved details . . . almost like something that would be worn by a princess from the Far East . . . or maybe something that would be worn by a goddess.

It’s all oddly familiar to me, the pose, the costume . . . Perhaps he’s modeled me after a famous painting, one that I’ve seen but can’t fully remember. Maybe . . . maybe something that relates to his interest in history? That would make sense since it’s period dress. But it’s more than that—this drawing is ringing a bell. If he modeled it after a painting with some kind of historical significance, then it’s probably in relation to World War I or World War II. Those are the periods of history that Lander is most fascinated by, and therefore the periods I’ve spent the most time studying over the last few years. Although how this picture could have anything to do with war is beyond me. Particularly when I consider the words written underneath the drawing:

Kind, Witty Heroine.

That’s what he wrote. That’s how he titled his drawing of me.

I touch the image lightly, tap it as if expecting that it will disappear. I’ve never seen a drawing of myself before.

In it I’m beautiful.

I stand there for a full minute, studying the lines he built me up with. And the line he wrote: Kind, Witty Heroine.

No one has ever seen me that way. I have never been the heroine . . . and it’s been a very long time since I’ve had the luxury of being truly kind.

But I can’t let myself get caught up in this. I have other things to do.