In his mind, the thin, short-haired, flat-chested model resembled a ten-year-old boy. Peering over his shoulder, his instructor Ms. Tempest said, “I think you may do better with our next model. Hang on a minute and I’ll tell you why.” She called out, “Break for lunch, everybody.” The model gathered her robe from the floor, slipped it on and disappeared around the partition behind her. Lunch? Already? Mason glanced at his watch. Sure enough. Twelve thirty. He could get lost in his art, mostly when it was going very well or very badly. Before he set down his pencil, Ms. Tempest continued. “I’ve noticed that your style is very sensuous. Katia is curvier. She’s late, but by the time you come back from lunch, I’m sure she’ll be here.” The other dozen students filed out of the room, and Mason figured he’d pick his instructor’s brain while he had her undivided attention. “Are some bodies better suited to an artist’s style than others?” “Oh, absolutely. Unless you’ve apprenticed with an old master.
