Leonardo left the conference room grimacing and not just a little pissed. Fucking pretentious manager. He spotted his fellow reporters pushing two tables together in the Blue Chair bar. They were yapping and grinning like raccoons. He wasn’t going to join them. No way was he gonna sit among those soon-to-be intoxicated rodents.

He scanned the foyer and dining room, aiming his eyes at the mingling fans. He walked into the restaurant, following the sound of clinking silverware and glass; noting that Wyde’s second album—the Latin acoustic one—was playing from the speakers in the ceiling. He ignored the maître d’ and started in among the white-clothed tables.

She was sitting alone at a table for four with her gift bag in her lap, smiling at the collectibles, and ignoring the open menu atop her charger and silverware. Leonardo approached slowly. He waited until she looked up and saw his ‘good guy’ expression. Once she had taken it in, he added some smile. He looked at her and asked in French:

“C’était magique. Vos impressions?”

He waited. As expected, she looked a bit taken aback with his French. He glanced to the chair opposite hers, placed his hand on it lightly, and tilted his head.

She looked at the chair and then back to his eyes. A moment passed before she nodded.

Leonardo smiled again and sat down slowly, deferentially. He was careful to keep his hands off the white tablecloth. They were eye-to-eye with a candle between them. He waited. He wanted her to smile. When she did, he tilted his handsome face slightly, letting his long hair sweep over his left eye.

‘Bonjour, elle est un délice. Vous êtes journaliste?” she asked.

His body tightened. Clenching fast. This hadn’t happened before. What were the odds that one of them would be conversant in French? He had a few charming phrases and introductions, as well as a small collection of colorful observations. He blinked, blinked again, and raised his hand to his eye feigning something bothering his vision.

She leaned forward and offered her linen napkin. He gently dabbed and wiped the corner of his eye. Gathering himself back together, he returned the napkin. Continuing to blink, he asked her:

“Is your English good? I always need the practice.”

The young woman nodded and said with a whimsical twang, “Yep.”

Leonardo was pleased. He talked to her in a soft voice; not talking so much as querying her, drawing out her impressions of Karen and her wonderful music, antics, attire, and mystique.

He listened to her with faked interest while also reviewing her, considering her. And his art. He had his slow-paced romancing tools. And the bottle of drops and kerchief in his pocket.

He watched her warm to him, thaw with his attention. She appreciated his few practiced self-deprecating comments. They ordered, and she looked pleased, relaxed, and taken by his drop-dead handsome looks.

Dinner was served, and she was the one who made the next move. She rose and sat in the chair beside him. He prodded her with softball questions and listened to her mundane, well-educated babble. She was telling him a version of her life story, he noticed.

They ordered dessert, deciding to share some chocolate decadence she selected. They shared her fork, their faces moved closer, and their conversation grew quiet and warm. She was not an ideal canvas, her skin was coarse, but he could work with that. He forced his thoughts away from textures and hues and did an admirable job staying within the slow verbal dance of romance and seduction.

She turned from her story and began to chatter about Karen, which was distracting and irritating. He batted away her voice by turning to the practicalities of what had to happen after he walked her to her car. She touched his wrist with her fingertips, and he had to swallow away a rise of queasiness. He paid with a stolen credit card and suggested a stroll.

They left the Blue Chair. She took his arm and talked about maybe skipping Wyde’s concert that night. With that, she was no longer a woman. He breathed in the warm evening air and walked slowly with his living canvas.

AFTER HE HAD HER on the table inside his studio, he warmed the stage lights and started his cameras. He put her on an I.V. and set out his paints, airbrushes, and tattoo equipment. He labored and created long into the night, oblivious to the movie cameras.

When the sun rose, the painting was complete. Leonardo turned the cameras off. It had been a fine and masterful effort. He wanted to start the editing, but there were practical matters at hand. He opened his worn, marked copy of The Pillow Book to word-painting 229, ‘It’s lovely to see, on a day when the snow is thick’.

Her role in his vignette was complete. Her next role would be that of a drugged form on a bus stop bench. She would awaken with her body completely shaved, bathed, painted, cleansed, and redressed. She might be one of those who spotted his tiny signature on her right ass cheek, but that wasn’t likely. He had a deft artistic touch with the fine-tipped tattoo needle. The gold ink check mark was minute.