COTTON, SOFT AS SILK, CARESSES my skin. Embroidered threads of scarlet, sunflower yellow and black, against a background of snow white, dance across the sleeves and bodice of the blouse. It has become, I have become, a garden of delicate flowers and swirling leaves.

My face is the still point. I hold his gaze, only blinking when he looks down to guide his pen. When he lifts his eyes, I understand he sees beyond the blouse to my flesh, and beyond my flesh to my bones. I am angle and shape, only form. If I move, even slightly—touch my hair, tilt my chin—I will break the harmony of the line.

For a moment, our eyes meet. I pour myself into him, and he is open, receives everything. The pen moves silently. He draws my mood, my musing, my hopes, my dreams. He draws the light in the room and the scent of the sea in the air.

After a long stillness, he lays down his pen and beckons to me.

I see myself transformed. He has drawn three flowers on the bare skin of my right arm, as if I were blossoming.