Girl in the Afternoon by Serena Burdick

she’d leave behind, tubes of paint. She didn’t make a show of it, but the supplies were helpful, and because Henri never said a word she knew he was grateful.
    It was strange, what was going on inside Aimée. It wasn’t happiness, but a kind of thrilling anticipation. Lying to her parents felt unexpectedly satisfying, telling them nothing of Henri.
    She started arriving at the apartment earlier than usual, hoping for a few private moments before Leonie showed up. She would hang her hat and set up her easel with a show of competence and ease. Having familiarized herself with the tiny cups and the one pot that hung on the wall, she’d grate chocolate into a saucepan of milk, pour their drinks, and rinse the pot immediately so it wouldn’t crust over. She’d scold Henri for his paltry breakfast, telling him he couldn’t work all morning on a hunk of bread.
    Henri was tolerant of all of this feminine influence, even appreciative, but he made it very clear, without words, that he wanted nothing of their old relationship. He wanted nothing of their past. He never spoke of it or her parents. He did not ask Aimée a single question about herself, and in turn she never asked how he survived the war, where he’d gone, who had helped him. Desperately she wanted to know why he left. It was the most obvious question to ask, and also the most obvious to avoid. This hole in his past was like a specter, haunting every corner of that room.
    Aimée tried to convince herself that at least they had their silence. But even that had changed. The intimacy was gone, the effortlessness of being in each other’s company. The silence made them uncomfortable now. Aimée’s stomach tensed every time Henri was near enough to smell the mix of cigar and resin that came from his clothes. When he brushed against her, her breath seized in her chest. Once, when she went to put his teacup down, he’d unintentionally put his hand over hers and they’d both pulled away, the cup shattering on the ground.
    And yet, there was something undeniable between them. Love might be too much to hope for, but something had kept Henri away all these years, an emotion worth running away from, and this was what Aimée clung to.
    *   *   *
    No mention of Henri came up in the Savaray household, so after a while Colette stopped worrying. She dropped Auguste as quickly as she’d picked him back up. The summer was progressing, and it was too hot to have him smother her at night, plus she needed her sleep. Her Thursday-night soirées had become a social event of note, and they took the entire week to plan.
    She also got it fixed in her mind that Aimée had to marry. There had been no buyer for the salon painting, and it was obvious that the client Édouard sent Aimée’s way was merely charity, and not generous charity at that. Monsieur Chevalier made Aimée scrape off his wife’s face four times before he was satisfied. Then he only paid two hundred francs for the portrait when he’d originally agreed to three. Aimée, stubborn as ever, vowed she wouldn’t paint another portrait, claiming it was commercial art. “I’m not going to paint what someone tells me to,” she’d said with a haughty jut of her chin.
    Colette told her she was being senseless. Portraits were a respectable way for an artist to make a living, but Aimée seemed to think she had some inimitable talent that made her exempt. Édouard probably put that thought in her head; he was much too complimentary. Now Aimée spent all of her time at that académie, honing her skills, running up bills for supplies with no more commissions in sight.
    Colette, for one, was tired of it, and there was Jacques to think about.
    *   *   *
    Auguste was just grateful Colette’s screaming, and the blows to the back of his head, had stopped. Of course he wanted her physical attention, even