My model was still nude when Darla came home. She was eating half a sandwich, sitting on the old parlor couch next to me. I was eating the other half. Some bread crumbs littered her crossed thighs. We were facing the door Darla filled, the easel turned away from us, the half finished painting reflecting in the fogged glass. Darla's shoulders squared when she saw us, puffed up somehow like a scared cat. I could see the corners of her suitjacket come to points at either side of her dry brown hair... read more
