“Okay,” he said, and beckoned her inside.
His apartment had track lighting, a consequence of the owner’s tastes. Upon entry, Regan began traversing the apartment, turning lights on, turning them off. “Do you have something to—？”
She gestured and he nodded, handing her the stepstool that had been tucked into the corner of the kitchen. She clambered on top of it, angling the bulbs.
“Careful with the—”
“They’re not hot yet,” she assured him briskly, then pointed for him to stand by the window. “Wait over there,” she said, and then, “I’ll adjust you in a sec.”
He obliged, positioning himself beside the window as she’d asked, and she frowned at nothing, arranging the empty space inside her head.
“Okay,” she said, and then frowned again, at him this time. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
It was his usual t-shirt and black jeans.
“I’m currently wearing it, yes,” he said. “Conceptually, no. I could change.”
Her frown transitioned from thoughtful to hesitant.
“Can I…？” she asked, gesturing vaguely to his closet.
“You’re the artist,” he said, beckoning for her to go ahead.
She turned, rifling through his wardrobe, which was sparse to say the least. He watched her, noting her look of uncertainty, and cleared his throat.
“How have you been?” he attempted.
“Fine,” she said. She paused, biting something back, and then turned over her shoulder to look at him. “I’m still with Marc,” she said.
“Right,” he said.
“Nothing’s new, really.”
He inadvertently made a low sound, something like a coughed-up laugh, and she turned sharply.
“What?” she demanded.
“Obviously something’s new,” he said, and amended, “Or, I don’t know. Everything is.”
“Something, or everything?”
“You tell me.”
“Nothing’s changed.”
“Something’s changed,” he countered, and she spun back to his closet, directing her attention somewhere else, to the space between hangers.
“I’m painting again,” she said, eyeing his shirts.
“But you wanted to draw me?”
He deliberately placed the emphasis on draw, not me.
“Yes,” she said. “I’d paint you, but that’s more things to carry around. Maybe another time.”
So it had been impulsive, then. Or compulsive. “What are you going to draw?”
“I don’t know. You, I guess. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, there you go, other people would.”
“Fair.” He paused. “Are you doing some kind of anatomical study, or…？”
She froze, pivoting to look at him.
“Yes,” she said, so slowly he wasn’t sure her brain and her mouth were actually in agreement. “Yes,” she confirmed, more conclusively that time, and then, with a lift of her chin, “Yes. So you’ll have to take off your clothes, probably.”
He blinked. “Oh.”
“Just your shirt,” she assured him, and then grimaced. “Well, no, actually. All of it.”
“All of it,” he echoed slowly, and she nodded.
“I don’t want to do fabrics right now,” she said, stepping conclusively away from his closet. “They’re an illusion, and besides, I don’t like any of yours. I want to show how the shadows really fall.”
“And you want me for a model?”
“Of course. Who else would do it?”
“How do you know I will? I haven’t said yes.”
“Well, I know,” she said firmly, and he considered that for a moment.
“What are you going to do with the drawings?”
“Hang them in the Louvre,” was delivered with perfect solemnity.
“They have higher standards,” he said, “I presume. I hope.”
“Well, maybe you underestimate me, hm? Besides, you said you wanted the art key,” she informed him, shutting the door to his wardrobe and advancing in his direction. She’d made up her mind; clearly this was happening. “This is the closest thing to having it,” she said, daring him to argue, “isn’t it?”
“I picked the art key because I was almost positive you wouldn’t give it to me,” he said, which was true. He was capable of devoting his thoughts to any number of impossible problems. He was also, as it turned out, a seeker of unavailable things.