Page 95 of Born to be Wilder

“I’ll be fine,” I said, and somehow I was certain I would be.

I left the widows outside the room in the small living area, where they huddled together like a tactical unit.

“One scream, Alice,” Marge called after me, loud enough I knew Lawrence heard her… and it was intentional. “One scream and we’ll be in there and we’ll tear his limbs and pecker off. Got it?”

I laughed. “Got it.”

I stepped in and closed the red door behind me, looking around the room that was set up like a small artist’s studio.

“I don’t have props or anything. I wasn’t exactly planning on this,” Lawrence said.

“I don’t need props. Just me.”

“Standing? Sitting? How do you want to do this?”

“I think standing. I want you to capture every inch of me exactly as I am. Maybe…” I looked around and noticed the full-length window with the beautiful sheer white curtains. “How about I pose here? In front of the window.”

“Love the light. Great choice. Now do you want me to sketch you like before or paint you? I can do either.”

“You paint too?”

He nodded.

“You good at it? As good as you are at sketching?”

He nodded again.

“Then paint me. Full color. I want to feel this moment every time I look at it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I arched an eyebrow. “I’m about to get naked in front of you. Don’t call me ma’am or I will feel old.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry. You don’t look old.”

“I don’t feel old.”

“Then that’s why you don’t look old.”

I smiled at him, this simple-spoken artist.

He turned his easel and pointed it toward the window and set his paint beside him. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I took a breath. My fingers went to the zipper of my dress.

The fabric hit the floor, and as I stood there, fully exposed in the cool air, I should have felt vulnerable. Instead, I glanced at the door and knew with certainty the little widows, or perhaps more like little warriors, on the other side of it were looking out for me.

They were always looking out for me.

I stepped to the window, the muffled sound of New Orleans carrying up from the street below. I positioned myself in front of it, reaching up to tangle my fingers in the curtains, bending my dancer’s body just slightly to give the arc of movement in my pose to capture me in these last moments of who I was.

“That’s perfect. Right there. The outside moonlight is really catching you beautifully. Highlighting every curve.”

Good, let it illuminate every incredible inch of me, I thought but didn’t say.

Instead, I stood silently as he started to paint.

In the silence, I thought about my breasts.