Girl in the Afternoon by Serena Burdick Page B

she’d spent the last week painting at the académie.
    The two-way traffic rumbled down the wide boulevard, shiny carriage panels flashing in the sunlight. Aimée felt a quiet dread at being packed into the studio with all those ambitious students and an instructor who gave her exasperated looks and little instruction. Already the city was a white haze of heat, and the studio would be miserably hot.
    Aimée decided to change direction, making a left on the rue de Naples, heading toward the rue de Calais. She needed to see Henri.
    Two weeks ago she had been standing at his table, arranging her paints, feeling slightly disoriented, as she always did when coming out of six continuous hours of painting. Leonie had left, and Henri was standing next to Aimée reading the newspaper. As she shut the lid of her paint box, her hand brushed the edge of his. Without thinking, she reached out and touched that tender place above Henri’s wrist. He flinched, just slightly, but didn’t pull away. Then he turned his hand over, and Aimée slipped hers, palm up, inside of his. There was no clutching or embrace, just their oil-stained hands cupped together, Henri’s fingers curled over the tops of hers, his hand clammy and warm.
    Without a word, Henri pulled away, folded the newspaper, and moved it to the sideboard. Aimée—heart pounding furiously—lifted her paint box, nodded good-bye, and slipped out the door.
    Now, walking down the street, Aimée imagined Henri in his apartment quietly waiting for her: sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top of his shirt unbuttoned, sweat beading along his hairline.
    Not wanting to arrive empty-handed, Aimée stopped at the butcher’s. The woman behind the counter was as plump and pink as the meat she slapped onto the scale, the lace on her crisp white apron standing at attention over her shoulders. With dimpled hands she wrapped a pound of preserved sausage meat, aggressively suggested a slice of larded veal, and, then, a half a pound of ham.
    Aimée bought all of it. It was early yet for food, hardly past breakfast, but Henri would have to ask her to stay. At first they’d discuss getting another model together, or taking a trip to Fontainebleau and painting out of doors before the summer was over. Eventually, when they were comfortably settled in each other’s company, she’d ask him directly why he left, because it seemed to Aimée that the past, as much as they wanted to ignore it, was the very thing standing in their way.
    *   *   *
    Henri held the door open. His lips were red and moist, hair damp at the temples, shirt untucked. His cuff links were removed, and the ends of his sleeves flapped helplessly around his wrists. Aimée could smell his sweat, and almost feel the heat pulsing off his body. His eyes rounded and filled with pity.
    Before she could register Henri’s expression, she noticed Leonie, sitting on the bed with bare feet, the strings of her blouse undone, her face tellingly flushed. No easel. No brushes. No paints anywhere in sight.
    A tingling sensation ran up the sides of Aimée’s face, and her jaw tightened as if she’d bitten into something sour. It was all she could do not to let out a wail, collapse on her knees, and beg them not to do this to her.
    Flicking his eyes away from Aimée’s stricken face, Henri focused on a dark stain on the wall. He could feel the flutter under his left eye start up, a rapid fire of nerves. A hot breeze blew in, and the stench of the courtyard hit him, the smell of manure sharp and pungent. His head began to throb, and he had the urge to cover his face and block it all out.
    He hadn’t meant for this to happen. Leonie was just a fresh, fun distraction. She was always arriving late, in a whirl of apology. “Hotter than blazes out there,” she would say, and happy to shed her clothes, flash her brazen, gap-toothed smile, uninhibited and