Émile’s studio was one block from Le Dôme Café on Rue Delambre. The old staircase creaked as though it would pull away from the wall as we climbed. As he shut the door behind us, I was aware that we were alone for the first time. He cracked open the only two windows in the stuffy little apartment and pulled the biggest chair he had in front of them. I looked down and noticed that the two plates he’d placed in front of me were from the Café de la Rotonde. He appeared to have stolen a set of everything for our meal tonight. From Kiki, I know that all of the artists steal plates and cutlery from the Café de la Rotonde, but I find it charming. We sat together on the chair and listened to the sounds of Paris below us as we ate Gouda with some fresh bread and apples.

Surrounding us were paintings in various stages of completion. The lights were off so we relied on the outside illumination from Montparnasse. Émile was a master of manipulating light, so I felt like he’d arranged this scene and I wondered how he saw me now. The moon was full and shining, giving me a good view of a stack of his paintings. Curious, I perused the canvases.

A few of his paintings were interesting attempts at cubism, the shadows of a man’s face perfectly drawn, yet angular. Where the shadows fell in the hollows of the cheekbones, he’d created landscapes using an elaborate crosshatch technique. The scene wasn’t entirely visible until the eye was close. There were also several nudes of one woman—a woman with golden hair—and I found that I was struck with a pang of jealousy, certain that while the oil was drying on the canvas, he was making love to her in the threadbare sheets on his tiny bed. My calves brushed against the bedspread and I was imagining myself tangled in the sheets, our bodies sticking together in the heat.

“She’s beautiful,” I said. He’d come to stand behind me.

“Oui.”

I was struck by his honesty, yet he gave nothing away, no hint that she was a lover past or present. I wanted to run out, fearing that I was not built for this vulnerability.

“I wish every one of these paintings were of you.” I felt his presence behind me, then his hand resting softly on the center of my back. “Then I might not miss you as much.”

I turned to see his face in the moonlight. It was the sincerest look. “I want to be surrounded by you, Cecile.”

I shook my head. “You could paint me every night. And every morning your canvas would be blank.”

“I do have the one painting of you.”

True. And his painting would be the only likeness of me ever created. Somehow the thought gave me a great wave of melancholy.