Page 110 of Hello Stranger

“But thisisn’tmyself.”

“Right now it is.”

I thought about it.

“What if you just capture your story—right now—as it is. I’d give anything to see that.”

“I’ll try,” I said. Because what other choice was there?

“And then text me a picture.”

“Fine,” I said. “But if you text back words like ‘serial killer,’ we’re going to have a problem.”

OKAY. SUE WASN’Twrong.

Before, I’d been trying to paint a portrait. A highly specific kind of portrait.

But knowing that I couldn’t do that was a kind of freedom.

Now all I had to do was paint something interesting. Something compelling. Something that held your attention. Something true about my life.

I was going to paint the moment. My experience of Joe in this moment.

Whatever that might turn out to be.

What I didn’t have going for me, obviously, was the face.

What Ididhave?

Joe’s exquisite torso, for one. Right? I knew for a fact I could see that. Now that I thought about it, it seemed like a crime to leave a visual feast like that all covered up.

I also had going for me: form, color, mystery, composition, contrast. And attitude. I wasn’t going into this painting timid. I would dive in bold—headfirst and naked.

Metaphoricallynaked.

Which left me feeling all the things you feel when you’re about to get naked. Nervous. Awake. Churning with anticipation. Hyperaware of the fact that you’re alive.

When Joe arrived, he seemed like he might be some of those things, too.

“You don’t have to do this,” I said as I opened my hovel door.

“Sure I do. I said I would.”

“Yes, but I’m giving you an out.”

“I don’t need an out.”

“You don’t know what I’m about to do to you.”

“You can do whatever you want to me.”

“I’m going to touch you,” I said. “Is that okay?”

“I think so?”

“What I mean is, I just read an article about an artist who does self-portraits by touch, with her eyes closed. So she’s painting what she’s feeling more than what she’s seeing. And I’d like to do that to you.”

Joe shrugged. “Fine.”

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