For her birthday, Penelope received a card from her grandmother along with a hundred dollar bill. That afternoon she went to the mall and got her nails done. Afterwards she walked around. With school out for the summer, the mall was filled with lots of junior high and high school kids, as well as a number of young mothers pushing toddlers in strollers. Penelope had not been a part of the mall crowd back then, and she didn’t imagine she would ever be a young mother, or a mother at all. The idea made her shiver. Last term she’d changed her major from biology to psychology, which had been her minor, but she didn’t see a career for herself in psychology. With a year left in college, she despaired of having any career. She thought about going to the food court for some lunch, but she really wasn’t hungry, and the idea that she might only be suitable as a food court cashier or a waitress made her turn away. Time to head home, although there was no one there—her parents were in South America. At least she got to use the car. If she could remember where she was parked. The exit ahead was not the one she’d come in. She was lost.

Trying to backtrack, she found herself at an exhibition of photographs mounted on pegboard. Penelope stopped to look. Not bad, she said to herself. She especially liked one of a violin lying on an old wooden floor, sunlight rubbing the surface a gleaming gold. The photographer, according to the tag, was Peter Brook. She’d gone to school with a Peter Brook. He was a strange guy, reputedly a loner, a brain, not exactly a nerd but ... And there he was. “Hey,” she said. “Hi. I don’t know if you remember me but...”

Peter’s face lit up. “I do remember you. Penelope!” And then he just grinned.

“So you’re a photographer,” Penelope said. “Your pictures are great.”

“Thank you,” Peter said. “I’m glad you like them.”

“It’s funny about the violin,” Penelope said. “My grandmother played the violin. I was just thinking about her earlier today. I wish I could play the violin. But I don’t have a musical bone in my body.”

“You have a nice voice,” Peter said.

“I do? I mean thank you. But I can’t sing. Not even in the shower. Maybe that’s why I take baths. I don’t know why I said that. I hardly ever take baths. Showers, yes. Lots of showers.”

Penelope was conscious she was babbling. This wasn’t like her. Something about Peter. About her birthday. About her newly painted nails. “Aren’t these hideous?” she said, showing them to Peter.

He took her hands in his. “Not at all,” he said. “You have lovely fingers. I wouldn’t mind photographing them.”

“But the color is all wrong. Hideous. It was supposed to match my hair, but now that it’s dried, it’s all wrong.”

“Things don’t always have to go,” Peter said. “Like this picture of the viola da gamba. I had a choice of pewter, black, or gold for the frame. I picked gold. I don’t know what I was thinking. Probably would have been better without a frame.”

“It looks fine to me,” Penelope said.

Then there was silence. He was still holding her hands.

“I should probably go,” Penelope said. “I mean I don’t have to, but I don’t want to keep you or anything.”

“You can keep me,” Peter said.

Penelope wasn’t sure what he meant. He let her hands go. Now she didn’t know what to do with them.

“Where would you keep me?” she asked. When Peter didn’t answer, his face blank, she realized she had turned the question around.

“I’m sorry, I...” Penelope began to apologize.

“No, that’s okay. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t keep you in the closet.”

“That’s a relief,” Penelope said.

“Seriously, though, I would like to take a picture of your hands. And the rest of you.”

“Really?”

Peter nodded.

“This afternoon? I mean when you’re done here.”

“This afternoon would be great,” Peter said.

Penelope gave him directions.

She managed to find the car without too much trouble. Driving home, she remembered that back in high school there were rumors Peter was gay.

Penelope was disappointed in some way she couldn’t define. It’s not that Penelope expected to sleep with Peter, even if he weren’t gay. After all, she’d only slept with three guys before, one of them once, one twice, and one four or five times. The sex had always been disappointing. Penelope set about cleaning up the house, which was only a little untidy. She thought about changing the sheets in her bed. They hadn’t been washed since she’d come home from campus almost three weeks ago. She left them. Chances are he’d never see the inside of her bedroom. Maybe he wouldn’t even show up. She thought about taking a shower and remembered telling him about all the showers she took—such a blabbermouth—and she thought maybe a bath would be better, a long hot bath, but what if he showed up while she was still in the bath? What was the point? He probably wasn’t going to show up anyway.

He did show up. Her heart beat faster when she opened the door for him. She was trembling. All she could do was smile. He was smiling too. He was carrying a hefty camera bag. She expected him to take it off his shoulder, but instead he took her hand and led her up the stairs. He led her into her bedroom as if he’d been there before. He set the camera bag on the floor. He undressed her, without haste, as if he’d undressed her dozens of times before and it was always as special as the first time. He sat her on the bed. She thought he would come to her then, but he didn’t. He unzipped his camera bag and took out his camera. He attached a lens and made a few adjustments. She sat still, trying to control her breathing, her trembling. He crouched on the floor in front of her. “Can you lift your legs onto the bed?” he said, his face mostly hidden by the camera. She lifted her legs. Her sex opened. “Hold your legs close to your body,” he said. “Yes, like that. Perfect.” She was so exposed. So aroused. So in love.

Peter detached the lens from his camera, placed camera and lens back in the pouch, and zipped it shut. “I can’t wait to get this printed,” he told Penelope. “I just know it’s going to be great.”

“Wait,” Penelope called from the bed, as Peter strode toward the bedroom door. “Where are you going?”

Peter turned to her, a surprised look on his face. “To get the picture printed.”

“Don’t you want to...? Aren’t you going to...?”

But he was gone.

Penelope lay back on the bed and jammed a pillow over her head. How could she have been so ... So clueless!

She sniffled a few times and then sighed. He’d seen her completely naked, and he didn’t want her. He just wanted ... What?

Penelope tried to think what it was she wanted. To love him. To be loved by him. How pathetic! “I would have sucked you. I would have sucked your cock and swallowed your cum,” she said, half aloud. Not that she had ever actually sucked a cock, but she’d read up on the subject and seen a few clips on the computer. She tried to picture how it would work with Peter. He’d be standing by the bed, naked, his cock curved up, and she’d lick it from stem to tip, and then she’d take it in her mouth. She tried to imagine it, but she couldn’t. As if it were a bad dream, his cock was always just out of reach. Something was weighing her down. She stuck her thumb in her mouth to make the fantasy more real. She moved her thumb in and out, sucking it. She hummed to her thumb as she sucked it. She played her tongue over the newly colored nail. Not surprisingly, the thumb didn’t come. “I’m such an idiot,” she said to herself. “He’s gay, so it’s a guy he wants sucking his cock.” Then she remembered a tip she’d read on one of those porn sites. The way to make a guy come while giving him a blowjob was to stick a finger in his ass. And since Peter was gay, maybe that would do it—a finger in his asshole. But face it, he didn’t want her. He only wanted pictures of her. Okay, maybe he’d be interested in a picture of her sucking his cock. She could imagine it well enough. She could even imagine the pewter frame.