I realized quickly that it had to have been taken through the window of the wine bar where I had met her in Alphabet City—I remembered Ramona’s outfit. We were both reaching for the check, but you couldn’t see our tabletop, so in the picture it looked like we were holding hands. But who would have taken it? And why? Neither Matthew nor Ramona even worked in photographs. I looked closer but didn’t understand until I backed away. There was Matthew’s face, reflected in the glass, imposed over us both.

Matthew, answer me! What is this?

I nearly tripped rounding the next corner, pushing past people, even stepping on someone’s toes. A painter and his wife were looking at a series of Matthew’s sculptures, six in total. They seemed to be in pairs. The first was called Lily I, the second, Ramona I Lily I was tall, nearly nine feet if I had to guess. Ramona I was three feet. You hardly noticed her at all. In the next sculptures, Lily II and Ramona II, Lily was perhaps a little shorter, Ramona about the size she was in real life—five and a half feet tall. And by the third, the sequence had established a victor: Lily III was six feet tall, and Ramona III had grown to seven. My hands were shaking as I typed out another message to Matthew.

Where are you? Is this a joke?

We need to talk. NOW.

Someone looked at their phone and laughed. And yet I still didn’t understand the extent of the show, its depth, its scope.

Then the sound of static crackled through speakers—had they installed a PA system for this?—followed by a rustling noise. Then, a moan. A man’s. A woman’s. Mine. Matthew’s. He had recorded us in bed. And then, a third voice. Lower pitched, sort of a growl. Matthew groaning. You like that? Ramona. And there we were, the three of us, dubbed together, becoming louder, orgasms harmonizing. I covered my ears, but I could still hear everything. When it was over, reduced to a series of breathy pants, a giggle, the smack of a kiss, the track started over again. I thought I was going to throw up.