Moch (rhymes with Coke) was in New York to see the opening of a new show of paintings by Nils Stellansson, whom he’d briefly shared a studio with years ago and hadn’t seen since. He’d emailed Nils that he was coming, and Nils replied that they’d have to get together for dinner while he was in town, but it turned out that Nils wasn’t at the opening; his girlfriend back home was in labor and of course he was hurrying back to the Midwest to be with her and his new baby.

While Moch was disappointed not to be able to catch up with Nils, the show was not disappointing at all. The paintings were extraordinarily evocative, extraordinarily sexual.

“Quite something isn’t it?” said a young woman standing next to him. Then, “You don’t approve?”

“Why do you say that?” Moch asked.

“Your face, so tense, like an angry snarl.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize. These paintings—it’s hard not to get, uh...”

“Hard?” she said, a mischievous lilt to her voice, and her hand drifted beneath the flap of his coat. Brushed the press of his erection. “For me it’s hard not to get all slippery. Right now my cunt’s like a little lake. I’m Jamie, by the way. Nils mentioned you would be coming. He asked if I might take care of you.”

Her hand continued its caress for a moment more. Then, before parting, a sweet, knowing squeeze.

“You’re the model in most of these paintings,” Moch blurted.

“I am,” Jamie admitted. “They bring back lovely memories.”

He nodded, more at Jamie’s loveliness than at any understanding of the memories.

“Nils says that you’re an artist, too. A teacher of art.”

“I’m not really sure art can be taught,” he confessed. “Not so sure I’m much of an artist, either. Not nearly of Nils’ caliber, but I have some of my stuff on my phone, if you...”

“Yeah, I’d love to see,” Jamie said. “Maybe up in my apartment would be more comfortable. It’s just upstairs. Very convenient.” She led the way.

Up in her room they sat on an art deco sofa and Moch handed over his phone after opening the pictures’ folder.

“You do good stuff,” she said, studying each of the images. “I can see Nils’ influence. Or was it the other way around?”

“Ha ha, he’s the master,” Moch acknowledged. “Might I use the bathroom?”

When he returned and seated himself, she barely looked up, seemingly entranced by one picture. “Now this one is a bit different,” she said. “Very special.”

He leaned over to take a look. “Oh. No, that’s not mine. I didn’t mean to keep that in there. It’s one of my student’s. Niah. She’s quite a ... a character. Incorrigible.”