Sometimes, alone, I’d cross my arms around my chest and squeeze myself hard: the happiness crashing around inside me was almost too much. Going to her two mornings later, my new dress packed in my valise, I all but floated up the stairs. “Tonight,” I breathed, as we made our double bisous. A canvas wrapped in paper and twine dominated the salon, and beside it sat a small traveling bag. “We are alone,” Tamara whispered in my ear, touching me. “Jeanne is au marché.” I chuckled. “Don’t you have a rule?” “Today is special.” After we made love and napped, I woke to Tamara sitting very close, watching me. “How about a bath, and then some work?” “What were you doing?” Tamara showed me a little sheet of pasteboard covered in gold leaf. On it, she had painted a quick sketch of my face, eyes closed, lips parted. “Is that what I look like when I’m sleeping?” I asked. “That is what you looked like an hour ago,” she said, smiling. “It looks like Belle Rafaela.”
