"I'm not smiling."
"You're smiling at the canvas."
"That's different. That's artistic satisfaction." I am definitely smiling. "Your face is cooperating. Good bones. Very paintable bones."
"My bones are not paintable."
"All bones are paintable if you believe in yourself." I'm adding detail now—the way his hair catches light, not pure black but dark brown with threads of silver. "Though yours are particularly nice."
He shifts slightly. I make a sound of protest and he freezes.
"Sorry. Stiff."
"Of course you're stiff. You sit like someone's holding you at knifepoint." I set down my brush. "Stand up. Stretch. We've been at this for an hour."
"It hasn't been that long."
"It has. Look, the sun's moved." I point at the light patterns. "Time exists even in your depression chamber."
"It's not a depression chamber."
"It's a room with weapons instead of pictures and curtains that haven't been cleaned since forever. What would you call it?"
He stands, stretches. His spine makes concerning sounds. I pretend not to notice how his shirt pulls across his shoulders.
"I'd call it efficient."
"Efficiently depressing." I'm stretching too, my back protesting from hunching over the canvas. My corset definitely needs adjusting but that's not happening here. "Same time tomorrow?"
"We agreed to one session."
"We agreed to one session but that was before I realized you have the bone structure of a classical statue and the complexion of someone who needs vitamin supplements." I start packing up carefully. Wet paint's unforgiving. "This needs at least two more sessions. Maybe four."
"Two."
"Four."
"Two, and you stop trying to put plants in here."
"Two, and I'm definitely cleaning those curtains."
He almost smiles. The light catches it for just a moment.
"Fine."
"Really?"
"Don't make me regret this."
"You won't. Well, you might when I show up with proper curtains. But you'll thank me later when you don't die from fabric-based lung disease." I gather my bags. "Same time tomorrow?"
"If you must."
"I must. Your cheekbones demand it."
"My cheekbones demand nothing."
"Your cheekbones are very demanding. Artistically." I head for the door, turn back. "Eat something before tomorrow. You're all angles. Beautiful angles, but sharp."
