Afterward, when we compare the two portraits, I shrug mine off as a failure. Where Duncan’s is the study of an attractive, sexually potent young man, mine is the caricature of a flaccid, pasty-faced boy. There is magnetism and vibrancy in Duncan’s working of Bunny’s naked torso, energy and tenderness in his rendering of the face. In mine, the planes of color clash with each other, crude blotches of pink, lemon, brown. The bars of green I have mixed into my flesh tones give a sickly sheen to Bunny’s skin. His eyes are mere dots, hinting at weakness, selfishness, even greed. I realize I have painted my jealousy.

I write to Bunny. I lay the sheet of paper flat on the table and pick up my pen. It is not so difficult. I am only framing words, after all. Words cannot hurt, cannot pierce and lacerate the flesh, pulverize one’s equilibrium and sense of self. I am inviting Bunny to come and live with us. I dangle descriptions of the house and garden, the loveliness of the apple trees in blossom on the lawn, promise delicious meals, the tranquility to write. I extol the virtues of the new water system, tell him what a paradise the orchard will be for his bees. I woo him with assurances of how badly he is missed.

I read my letter through, surprised by my capacity to lie. Duncan is pacing backward and forward in front of the fire. He has a blanket over his wet clothes, his hair drips in sodden tangles. He is bitter and impatient and rails against the rain. He reminds me of a lion I saw once with Father, patrolling his cage at the zoo. I remember thinking how terrible his fate was, to be forever dreaming of escape. I sign my letter and seal it in an envelope. I put my coat and hat on to walk to the post, despite the rain. I know that if Bunny does not come soon Duncan will leave.