You have seen it too. You have stopped writing, mesmerized. Our eyes catch, hover for an instant, before yours dip away. You return to your page, your brow furrowing with annoyance. You do not like this unfamiliar sister. I am slipping beyond your control. The red silk of my scarf slices us apart. I am as shocked as you are by my reflection in the mirror but I cannot tear my eyes away. I want to linger, consider this new persona, explore its untried possibilities. I listen to the furious scratch of your pen.

I paint on a wooden panel, large enough for a reclining nude. I curl the arms over the head, echoing its curve, then repeat the arch for the breasts and thighs drawn up close to the body. I lay my figure on wave-like daubs of blue. I want to give the impression that she is suspended, in water, perhaps, or air. I play with the colors. I mix gray and white to my pink, add traces of violet and gold. I want the flesh to look newly exposed, as if a sea creature has been peeled of its shell. I fill in the space above my figure quickly, great strikes of turquoise and ultramarine. I do not want to distract from her presence. I only want to close the space. I stand back and look at what I have done. The area above the figure is still too empty. I look at my colors. I decide to ignore verisimilitude altogether. My brush itches for red. I squeeze crimson onto my palette and blend it with my knife. This time, I paint spheres. I turn the arcs into poppies, vast wide-open blooms. Their black stamens are fresh rings against the red. There is still something missing. I have black left on my brush from the stamens and I draw a line between the poppies, lacing them together. I stand back and observe. Yes, the thread ties the whole. My picture is complete.