The End of Summer by Alex M. Smith Page B

and they lived together somewhere on Christopher Street.  Both
were artists.  My dad was a photographer, and my mom was a playwright.  They
were not looking for fame and fortune, but somehow they got both.  They never
got married, even after I was born:  “Marriage complicates things,” Dad told me
later.  I don’t blame them; it’s their life after all.
    When
I was born, they moved to a bigger house.  It was both a home and a studio for
their work.  So many models, actors, writers, directors, and all kinds of
artists used to frequent our home.  Mom used to give writing and acting classes,
and sometimes her class would only consist of a young handsome actor.
    I
had my first kiss in that house.  I still remember it as if it has just
happened.  I was only fourteen.  Camille was a young French model who was cast
for a perfume advertising campaign for a well-known international brand.  She
was only sixteen at the time, and her mom accompanied her from Bordeaux to New
York for the campaign and to LA to film a small role in a teenage movie as a
French exchange student gone wild.  Mom was in London at the time.  She was
invited to attend the opening of a new play written by one of her colleagues,
who was also one of her lovers.
    One
day, I came back from school and saw that the red light above the door was on. 
Every time the studio was occupied, my dad put a red light on to spare him the
embarrassment of someone walking in on some nude models.  The studio had two
doors, one at the back, which opened directly to the street, and another one which
led to our kitchen.  A couple of times, a nude model wandered through that door
into the kitchen by mistake, thinking the door led to the changing rooms.
    I
took a slice of pizza from the fridge and opened the studio door just a little
bit to be able to look inside.  I instantly saw flashing lights and a couple of
figures, one of a woman and one of a man watching my dad as he was
photographing someone.  Guessing the scene was safe enough for me to enter and I
would not get grounded for seeing a nipple or bare ass, I entered. Then I saw Camille
under the bright studio lights.  She looked perfect, a young girl wearing a
white dress.  She looked like a Greek goddess.
    They
all turned to look at me when I came in because, clumsy as I am, I stepped on
something that made a loud noise.  My dad was distracted and gave me an angry
look before he introduced me to everyone, then Camille told her mom something
in French, and her mom explained to us that Camille was hungry.  Dad told her
to go with me to the kitchen and told me to fix her something to eat.  Her mom
said that she was not hungry, and the executive from the ad agency had to go. 
Camille and I went into the kitchen, and Dad came behind us to make sure that
the door to the studio was closed.
    I
took the rest of the pizza out as Camille sat on the kitchen stool.  I offered
her some Coke, but she said no.  As we were eating, she saw that there was an
open bottle of red wine at the end of the kitchen counter.  She stood up, got
herself a glass and poured some wine into it, tasted it, and poured some more. 
She looked at me and tipped the bottle, offering me some.  I nodded a yes.  I
had never had wine before, but I was afraid of doing something that might
embarrass myself in front of her.  She was French with French habits, and I
didn’t want to look too American and unsophisticated to her.
    I
poured the Coke into the sink, and Camille poured wine into my glass.  She said
“ Santé” and took a sip.  I did just the same.  It had a nice taste, not
at all as I thought it would be.  We finished eating, and I showed Camille
where she could wash her hands.  As I was standing behind her, I noticed that
she was still wearing the Greek dress.  It was white, loose, and a little
transparent.  When she bent over the sink, I was able to see the outline of her
panties.  She was not wearing a bra either.  She