She was thinner， with a mannered gauntness

    as she paused just inside the double

    glass doors to survey the room， silvery cape

    billowing dramatically behind her.  What's this，

    I thought， lifting a hand until

    she nodded and started across the parquet；

    that's when I saw she was dressed all in gray，

    from a kittenish cashmere skirt and cowl

    down to the graphite signature of her shoes.

    "Sorry I'm late，" she panted， though

    she wasn't， sliding into the chair， her cape

    tossed off in a shudder of brushed steel.

    We kissed.  Then I leaned back to peruse

    my blighted child， this wary aristocratic mole.

    "How's business？" I asked， and hazarded

    a motherly smile to keep from crying out：

    Are you content to conduct your life

    as a cliché and， what's worse，

    an anachronism， the brooding artist's demimonde？

    Near the rue Princesse they had opened

    a gallery cum souvenir shop which featured

    fuzzy off-color Monets next to his acrylics， no doubt，

    plus beared African drums and the occasional miniature

    gargoyle from Notre Dame the Great Artist had

    carved at breakfast with a pocket knife.

    "Tourists love us.  The Parisians， of course"——

    she blushed——"are amused， though not without

    a certain admiration . . ."

    The Chateaubriand

    arrived on a bone-white plate， smug and absolute

    in its fragrant crust， a black plug steaming

    like the heart plucked from the chest of a worthy enemy；

    one touch with her fork sent pink juices streaming.

    "Admiration for what？"  Wine， a bloody

    Pinot Noir， brought color to her cheeks.  "Why，

    the aplomb with which we've managed

    to support our Art"——meaning he'd convinced

    her to pose nude for his appalling canvases，

    faintly futuristic landscapes strewn

    with carwrecks and bodies being chewed

    by r

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