My father, the pastor, had become a pontificating parrot. Yeah, Dad, I’ve heard that biblical verse a hundred times before, ‘The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil.’

Evils his parishioners could avoid by tithing ten per cent of their income to the church. Evils his daughter couldn’t avoid should she spend his hard-earned stipend on an education.

Only me, too; don’t get me started on my brothers. They had the testicles; they got a dollop of parental funding. Biblically ordained, apparently; money to ensure boys became righteous husbands who’d provide for their Christian families.

Money didn’t always maketh the man, however. My brothers’ faith was, to put it mildly, two-faced. They tithed their time on Sundays, God’s Day. My father beamed when the pious hypocrites attended services, helped dad with ministering to parishioners, and kept their hands to themselves around church girls.

But, on other days, the setting sun transfigured them into fornicators. They spent daddy’s money sowing wild oats in the dissolute bars of the not-so-religious side of town. Hooking up with floosies who’d spread their legs for the price of a two-for-one cocktail deal.

To my surprise, our neck of the woods was chock-a-block with cheapskates in short skirts who, having imbibed a couple of innuendo-labelled drinks, like Sex on the Beach, were up for going down on my dickhead brothers.

Not that I’d personally checked out those bars. Dad, after all, had been reliably informed that our town, after dark, wasn’t appropriate for a good woman. So my evenings were spent at home, sewing and embroidering clothes for the poor and needy of our parish.

Thank God for the internet, at least tucked up in bed I got a taste of the world beyond our church. But praise be for incognito browsing, no one could ever know the experiences I’d been privy to.

While I’m not perfect, I’ll always be riled that the blindest of eyes were turned to my siblings’ dissolute behaviour. Maybe Dad would have been more understanding had my transgression just been seeking an online education. But I’d demanded, well, more accurately, threw a hissy fit, that only Sydney University would do.

Yes, that Sydney. The town my father railed against from the pulpit: a later day Sodom and Gomorrah. Dad was even unmoved by the logic set out in the University’s prospectus; the hands-on nature of design courses meant studying remotely wasn’t fit for purpose.

But I had savings and managed to score an accommodation grant for promising rural students. My father was tight-lipped when I informed him I’d be taking care of the year’s fees and keeping a roof over my head.

Mind you, it wasn’t luxury; a stacked shipping container building the university had built on the cheap. Boiling hot in summer, freezing cold in winter, only the ever-present cockroaches weren’t in the market for more comfortable digs.

Even so, without a job, swallowing sufficient calories was bound to become a dicey proposition. So, on my first day in Sydney, I trudged around the neighbourhood, CV in hand, hunting out work.

Oxford Street was, according to my father, Sodom and Gomorrah Central. To be fair, I could see why he thought he had a point. The bars and clubs laid out the welcome mat for the dissolute behaviours my brothers enjoyed. But, more relevantly, hosting Sydney’s Pride festival turned out to be the tip of the iceberg of the community’s willingness to mollycoddle same-sex licentiousness.

Walking towards Hyde Park, I rained judgment down on the gay-grunge fashion. Not my finest hour, perhaps, but the overly androgynous when accessorised with goth tattoos and weird piercings wasn’t my definition of stylish.

No doubt they judged me too. My modest denim skirt, long-sleeved cream blouse and green vans probably typecast me as a country girl, but there’s no way I’d be mistaken for a bogan.

I finally discovered a cafe—Dyke on a Bike—that was hiring. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, so I’d left my resume. Then I received the owner’s text message inviting me back the next day at closing time.

To be honest, the cafe’s name should have been a no shit, Sherlock moment. But, naive old me hadn’t thought to Google, positive that dyke was the Dutch word for a dam. Didn’t even pause on my way inside to question the implausibility of a concrete and steel structure astride a bicycle.

The owner was waiting for me beside the counter. The dyke penny dropped the moment I spotted her greying undercut, and a large photograph above the coffee machine. The woman astride the Harley leading Sydney’s famous Pride Parade along Oxford Street was obviously a younger version of the cafe’s proprietor. 

Weirdly my fashion sensibilities were impressed. If you’re going to kick off a parade, then quality leather, stylishly cut with a modest cleavage showing, and in control of a discreetly styled classic motorbike, was the way to go.

She glanced at the photo, then firmly shook my hand. “I’m Matilda. My younger days, dear. Tell me, are you gay?”

No doubt that question was designed to shock. But the prospect of starvation had focused me on fitting in with the culture hereabouts. “I hadn't expected it would be compulsory.”

She laughed. “Touché. I’m proud of my DEI accreditation. So, yeah, straight girls are employable. Why are you the one I should hire?”

“I’m willing to work hard. I’ve a good track record in customer service from time in a small cafe back home. Mostly served tables, but I’m also a qualified barista.”

“Your reference is great. I googled the place; good value menu and excellent social media reviews. It’s very Christian. Each to their own, of course, but would you fit in here?”    

“It’s probably way too obvious that Sydney’s culture is new to me. But needing the money has focused me on what’s important. So, hand on the bible; I won’t judge a customer if you won’t judge where I’m from.”

Matilda’s jaw dropped. “Good point, I’m impressed. Nevertheless, saying, ‘Hand on the bible,’ sounds out of place around here.”

“It’s how I was brought up. Now I’m in Sydney, there may be habits and routines that need to be changed.” I glanced up at her Pride Parade photograph. “Would going down on my knees help?”

She smirked, raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, complete honesty, now: Do you have an inkling of how inviting that question is for a dominant lesbian?”

“At first, I thought a dyke was a Dutch dam. The photo on the wall told me how dumb I’d been. Yes, I had an inkling the question would appeal to you. But, no, not what a hook-up line those words are for you. Thanks for the learning.”

“You’re welcome. We’re closed Sundays. I need an extra pair of hands from six-thirty to nine weekday mornings, plus a longer shift till three on Saturday.”

“That fits perfectly with my university timetable.”

“You're raw, unpolished, different from my usual staff. But you’re service-experienced, and eager to learn. Honest too, which really matters to customers. You’re hired, dear.”

Quickly getting into my stride, my service included a winsome smile, now I’d be able to add more protein and the occasional sugary treat to my diet. Weekdays were super busy with the morning coffee rush, but Saturdays were more laid back, which allowed time for interacting with customers, particularly the brunch regulars. God only knew if they were sinners, with me they were ever so lovely.

Except, that is, for one thirty-something woman who didn’t speak when I delivered her soy-latte. Just smiled thankfully and let me get on with serving other customers. Yet, I was sure she’d become fixated on me.

Once, twice, maybe even a third Saturday could be put down to serendipity. But by the fourth week, her stares weren't a happy accident anymore. No doubt I blushed when placing that morning’s coffee in front of her. But then feigned indifference as her eyes seemed to bore down my modestly displayed cleavage.

The following Saturday, as I served her latte, she stared over the top of her dark-rimmed glasses. Held my gaze with an unnerving intensity. “Um … Would it be okay if I sketched you?”

I must have looked shocked and confused. Her fingernails lightly brushed the back of my hand, and her tone turned defensive. “I’m not creeping on you. I’m an artist. Generous to my models …, um, twenty bucks, okay?”

When poverty clouds judgement, even twenty dollars can be the gateway drug to gaucheness. “For each sketch?”

“No, for all those drawn this morning. We could discuss the future when you take your break.”

“Sure. My sandwich time is eleven.”

“I’ll kick in fries and dessert. Let’s talk while you eat.”

As Matilda handed me the next coffee order, I quickly asked, “Hey, the blonde I just served claims she’s an artist. Wants to sketch me. Is that for real?”

“Totally for real. Amanda is intense, but ever so lovely. Not your everyday artist either, she’s won an Archibald.”

“What’s that?”

“Australia’s top portrait award. One of our best young artists sketching you is a feather in your cap, dear.”

At eleven, I brought my lunch and a bowl of pumpkin soup for Amanda, to her table. She hurriedly clasped her A4 sketch pad to her breasts. “No peeking. We’ll eat first; then I’ll show you my sketches.”

I quickly chowed down a handful of fries. “I’m Faith, by the way. Really appreciate the fries shout. Matilda mentioned how impressive you are. So why me?”

She smirked, dipped a sliver of sourdough into the soup, and ate it. “Of course you’d be a Faith. First things first, are you artistic?”

“Never painted but do have an old-fashioned artistic bent. Embroidery, tapestry, clothes design, that kind of thing. I can competently sketch outfits for my university courses.”

“You’ve never been an artist’s model?”

“Never imagined there were artists on my side of town, let alone considered modelling for them.”

“Your side of town?”

I giggled nervously. “My father is an old-school pastor. A pillar of the Christian side of town. He’d likely think non-religious art was, at best, frivolous.”

“And you?”

“Let’s just say no one back home knows I’ve become a fan of YouTube frivolity.”      

“You come across as innocent. Capturing that in paint is calling to me.”

I felt myself blush. “If I’m a blank canvas, you won’t even need to add paint.”

Amanda smirked. “Intelligent and funny too. Yet you eat like you’re starving.”

“Even with this job, I’m struggling to be honest.”

“Then finish. I’ll show you my sketches before dessert.”

After we’d eaten, Amanda handed me four sketches of my face. “Don’t think, just react.”

I gasped; the clarity of her pencil took my breath away. “They’re exquisitely drawn. Love them all, though the first is more obviously me.”

“Exactly. That’s you, innocence personified. The others change cheekbones, eyes and lips. Do any of those seem more innocent?”

“Maybe the third.”

“I agree. Look closely, there’s a softness in the eyes that isn’t typically you. Yours have the more calculating edge of a born survivor.”

“Not the best model then?”

“No, no, Faith. I’ll get to innocence through you. Pretty please, give modelling a go?”

The bible didn’t proscribe artist models. I was still struggling financially. I nodded excitedly.

We met at her place one sunny afternoon. A large, two-story apartment on the cliff overlooking a busy Bondi Beach. Amanda smirked knowingly at my shocked look. “There’s no money in art. Fortunately, my wife is a merchant banker and earns heaps.”

I liked how cultured and elegant her apartment was. Amanda too, she totally rocked designer jeans and a silk apricot blouse. I also couldn’t help admiring her white-gold diamond choker; her taste clearly Tiffany, not Swarovski.

Downstairs in a spacious studio she pointed out her recent portraits. Then waved her hand towards some charcoal drawings of female nudes. “The male nude had a long history. Then the nude became female, although the artists remained male. Recently, though, women have been interpreting the male body through the female gaze. I decided to take that a step further.”

“Interpret the female body through a lesbian gaze?”

She looked at me, surprise etched on her face. “You’re so intuitive. But that idea died while watching you in the cafe. The painter’s gaze doesn’t interest me now.”

“What’s more interesting?”

“Is the nakedness accidental, indifferent or purposeful? I’ve been thinking about the profile paintings I adore; the Mona Lisa or the Girl with the Pearl Earring, for instance. What if they displayed their boobs?”

“Leonardo was a dirty old man?”

“No, no; it’s what’s in Mona’s mind, not Leonardo’s, that interests me. Does she understand her capacity to tempt? Or even give a fuck about who’s looking and why?”

“Okay, I get it. What’s the end-point?”

“A few portrait paintings on the ambiguity in innocence. Then, an exhibition of those plus my recent ones at the private gallery sponsored by my wife’s company. Some sales; maybe, hopefully, including to the National Gallery or the Gallery of New South Wales. Seriously, I’d give anything to get a second painting into an Australian gallery of record.”

“Your enthusiasm is infectious. So, if I agree?”

“Two, three-hour sessions, here every week. Obviously, I’ll pay, like, sixty bucks an hour. Plus, five per cent of any painting of you that’s sold. But you’ll need to be comfortable with nudity.”

Modelling seemed a breeze for that much money. “Not even my father could think an artist’s model was sinful.”

“He might, knowing you were starkers.”

“I won’t tell him, if you won’t. Monday and Thursday work best for me.”

She beamed. “Excited. I need to see you topless.”

I gulped, the reality of a foray into exhibitionism hit hard. But I hadn’t journeyed this far to back down now. Having nervously shed my blouse and bra, I stood statue-like, arms akimbo, no doubt sporting a raspberry blush, while her intense artist’s gaze scanned my body.

She even asked for a pirouette, then clinically observed, “Your boobs and back are perfectly muscled. Your button areolas and cute protruding nipples are ever so paintable.”

Grabbing a green pashmina, she tossed it to me. “Position this over your shoulders, cover the breast nearest to me but leave the other one partially exposed. Look out of the window towards the beach.”

As I focused on the swimmers, my right arm pressed the silk against my breast. I felt the pashmina slip away from my left breast.

“Oh, yes. Faith. Innocence preserves her modesty. Yet that glimpse of blindside breast screams: deliberate or accidental? The pashmina, though, is crap.”

“Why?”

“Single-dimensional; ensures modesty, but doesn't communicate anything else to the viewer.”

Unbidden, a stream of consciousness bubbled from me. “White is more innocent than green. Veiled emphasises purity. Linen can be semi-transparent. An embroidered red cross could cover one nipple.”

“‘Veiled,’ implies a nun. That’s not ambiguous.”

“Don’t forget Salome’s dance of the seven veils.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re brilliant. Let's see if we can make that work.”

The linen veil-like wrap I made at university thrilled Amanda. Carefully seating me in front of her easel, she draped the material over the back of my head. As the linen fell over my shoulders and breasts, she positioned the cross exactly over my right nipple. Gently sliding the material away from my left boob, she sighed happily. “Don’t you dare move.”

But, after a while, sitting statue-like became mind numbingly boring. I couldn’t even turn my head to check out the beach, so I had to study Amanda painting. So cute, when totally absorbed she pulled such adorable faces with each and every brushstroke, usually also running a finger over her choker.

Excited too, maybe, her nipples were indenting her paint-splattered smock. She rewarded me with a dimpled smile when catching me staring. “Are you comfortable pinching and stiffening your left nipple?”

In truth I’d become more than comfortable with the achy pleasures of playing with my nipples. At home, touching myself had developed into a delicious, but ever so private, night-time routine. All perfectly soundless, given how often my father had railed against self-pleasure from the pulpit.

With masturbation being a Rubicon I’d long since crossed, being paid to tease my nipple seemed like a no-brainer. But Amanda was intensely watching my fingers approach my areola. I caught her eye as I softly pinched my nipple. For once, I couldn't stop myself from sighing.

She smirked. “Feels so good, doesn’t it?” Then dipped her brush into the skin-tone paint that was mixed on her palette, as if enjoying watching me pleasure myself was the most normal thing ever.

“Mmhmm.”

“You’re not as innocent as you appear, are you?”

“I guess; more inexperienced than innocent. While I can look the part, I’m not a picture-perfect Christian girl anymore.”

“I’m still into God. But don’t respect Christians.”

“Because you’re gay?”

“Yeah, the God of Love’s church rejected me for loving women.”

“Can’t stand hypocrisy. Like my brothers, who’re Sunday Christians but weekday sinners. Yet I’m also a hypocrite. Apparently, the pious church daughter Dad always wanted. In reality, someone much more complex.”

“Ambiguity is what I’m desperate to capture. Right now, there’s uncertainty in your aroused nipple; like, is it because you’re actually into whoever is watching? Let’s finish this painting then work out how we deepen that contrast in the next painting.”

As Matilda and I closed Dyke on a Bike the following Saturday, she asked after my modelling.

“Great, we’ve nailed the first painting. Sitting still for hours is a pain, but it’s fascinating watching Amanda use the reality of me to create the subtly different and purer form of me that she wants.”

“You’re totally comfortable, dear?”

“Yeah, happily topless. One thing though, she wears a choker. I assume she’s submissive?”

Matilda’s eyebrow levitated. “It does. What made you suspect that?”

“Fifty Shades of Grey.”

She looked shocked. “Not a prescribed text for a Christian girl.”

“I know, right. The book was handed in by an outraged parishioner who’d found it secreted in his wife’s sewing cupboard.”

“One thing I detest about religion is how old-fashioned the clergy is about sex, especially given what’s in books and the internet nowadays.”

“What’s the issue?”

“The internet is mostly crap, dear. For instance, lesbian porn doesn’t resemble good lesbian sex.”

My mouth’s gatekeeper hadn’t journeyed with me to Sydney, the words escaped before I’d engaged my mind. “Girls Out West seems realistic.”

Matilda’s body language turned sphinxlike. “That quality is rare. But the relationship between a dominant and submissive definitely isn’t like Fifty Shades.”

“Seriously?”

“Submission is a gift which a dominant must treasure, her actions prioritising the submissive. A self-absorbed domme is a sadist.”

“Sadists surely end up in hell.”

“On that we agree. Does the D/s dynamic interest you?”

I gulped. “Just got intrigued by Amanda drawing comfort from her choker."      

Matilda wrapped me in her arms, her full breasts soft and snug against my b-cups. Whispered. “Amanda’s superpower is submission. She won the Archibald the year after she’d married a dominant she thought worthy of her. You’re just as smart as her, I’m sure you’ll make the right call about your sexual future; though, like her, you may have to leave religion behind.”

“Umm …, any recommendations of sensible D/s websites?”

She smirked knowingly. “Of course I do. University clearly wasn’t your only reason for coming to Sydney.”

“You’re the first who’s twigged to that.”

Matilda’s recommended lesbian D/s videos were eye-opening. Every evening I avidly watched while touching myself. Then I usually watched another video and touched some more. I learnt ever so much more about myself.   

The next Monday in Amanda’s studio, I took the deepest of breaths. Slipped off my top, then my yoga pants and thong, and sat on a chaise longue. Following Amanda’s instructions, my fingers perked my nipples, and my legs spread a little wider. Reclining, I relaxed against the couch’s back.

That drew a smile from her. “You’re simply gorgeous. And that resting angelic face always leads me to innocence. My painting task today is capturing your pretty pussy saying something unexpected about you.”

Maybe artists never spill the details of what they’re painting to the model sprawled naked before them. Or maybe a woman’s curves only become worthy of comment when reimagined on canvas.

Whatever, Amanda was ever so self-absorbed, the only sound in the room was her paintbrush moving confidently across the canvas.

Then the studio door burst open.

Having checked out the painting, her wife gave me the most condescending glance. Her fingers then lingered on Amanda’s choker as she kissed her. “I’m off to the airport now. Make this painting less crude, baby.”

After her wife left, Amanda’s bottom lip quivered while she stared at her artwork. That deflated feeling was infectious. After all, I’d inspired what she was conjuring from that canvas.

Carpe diem. I’d promised myself that in Sydney I wouldn't be the wallflower I had to become at home. Taking a deep breath, I slid a finger, aching slowly, across my perineum, corralling a stray drop of honey that had leaked from my pussy. Amanda froze, puzzled, her paintbrush pointed towards me, Hermione Granger-like, like she was defending against some dark art.

Spellbound, she watched as my finger painted the juices over my inner pussy lips. “Some Christians believe confession is good for the soul. Want to hear mine; this innocent face belongs to a wannabe wanton pussy?”

The palette clattered onto the hardwood floor, spattering paint.  “Still waters run deep … Miss?”

That boosted my confidence. “Drop the paintbrush.” It bounced and rolled along the floor. Amanda couldn’t hold my gaze, now focused on the drop of blue paint closest to me.

“Your wife doesn’t like me?”

“Doesn’t like where this portrait is heading. Erotica, not art, she says. Bad for our image.”

“Good for your artistic reputation, though?”

Amanda demurely raised her head, shivered on catching my eye, and imperceptibly nodded. Then intertwined her fingers behind her back and refocused on that paint splatter, seemingly the only thing she could bear to look at.

“Answer me!”

“But … She doesn’t, … I shouldn’t … Oh my God; yes, Miss. It's how I want history to see me.”

“You’ve won an Archibald. It's criminal to bind your creativity.”

Amanda nodded enthusiastically. “I adore pleasing others. Except when I paint. Great art comes from an artist’s soul; others be damned.”

Wow, I’d hit a nerve. I was getting out of my depth but trusted my instincts. “I’ve painted honey on my pussy lips for you.”

“Oh, God.”

“Want to taste?”

“If that would please you.”

I spread my legs, felt the folds of my now weeping pussy unglue. “More than you can imagine. With art you’re the boss. Otherwise, I’m going to lead.”

The indecision momentarily played across her face. Then she whispered, “Please.”

“On your knees.”

She knelt respectfully, almost reverently, closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of my arousal.

My fingers stroked her cheek and, on opening her eyes, she gazed up at me. Smiled and poked out her tongue. Wiggled it teasingly. I whimpered, anticipating.

Eyes locked onto mine, she licked, achingly slowly, up my perineum, then rasped her tongue firmly through my wet folds. Her tongue, sticky with strands of my honey, repeatedly flicked my clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure through me.

Focusing, Amanda painted her saliva on my slick pussy; first wide brushes of my slit with a flat tongue, followed by dabs of her tongue tip on my clit.

She mashed her face into my pussy; devouring me as she sucked my folds into her mouth and shook her head like an eager puppy. My juices dribbled off her chin and splattered onto that diamond choker of hers.

My hands gripped her head. I ground my pussy hard against her lips. Then, arched my hips and slammed my clit onto her tongue, just like I’d seen on the most erotic of Matilda’s recommended videos.

Totally lost in lust, I orgasmed in a screaming, gushing mess. A first, but definitely not my last with this woman.

When my eyes opened, Amanda’s glistening face was gazing in wonder at the juices oozing from my puffy pussy. “Your innocent face, your cummy pussy. That’s the contrast I need to capture.”

“Do a good job, baby, and I’ll get you a new collar. A cheap and tawdry one.”

Amanda shivered. “I’ll look like a twenty-dollar whore.”

“Humiliating?”

She sucked on her bottom lip. “God yes.”

“It’s been a journey, but I’ve accepted who I am. Accept who you need to be, baby; paint dirty for us.”

“Fuck…. Sorry…. Thank you, Miss.”

With her wife away, we spent eighteen uninterrupted hours in the studio. Amanda’s energy was electric and, when she was done, I was gobsmacked. The contrast between the painting’s innocent face and puffy, wanton pussy was wild.

Upstairs we made love, taking our time exploring each other's body. Videos are cool, but my first taste of a woman’s orgasm was heavenly. Then in sheets of a ginormous thread count, we were lulled to sleep by the sound of the ocean. I so could get used to living in luxury.

There’s a shop on Oxford Street selling wigs. High-quality human hair ones for cancer patients. And the cheap and cheerful, rainbow-coloured ones, that skimpily dressed gay-girls wear when strutting along the street in the Mardi Gras Pride Parade.

A colourful wig was perfect for the public opening of Amanda’s exhibition. So, with sunglasses and a scandalously short op-shop black lace dress, I felt outrageously invisible. Not the country church-girl who presented conservatively on social media. Nor, more importantly, the innocent-looking brunette whose puffy, raw pussy featured prominently on the gallery’s walls.

Accepting a glass of mislabelled champagne, I wandered incognito through the gallery sipping my mid-priced Australian sparkling and checking out the artworks. The paintings looked great to my naive eyes, and others clearly agreed. There were already discretely placed sold stickers on most paintings, including those that featured me.

I gasped; our most outrageous painting had been sold to the National Gallery of Australia. Much more than Andy Warhol’s fifteen minutes of fame; Amanda’s name, and my naked body would hang in Australia’s gallery of record for as long as art meant something to our country. 

Admiring little old me innocently showing off my used and abused pussy, I tried to hide my smirk. Random art-lovers were actually discussing whether wantonness or innocence was actually the true me.

But suddenly I shrank into the background and remembered to mind my verbal and non-verbal p’s and q’s. For, Amanda and her wife were walking up to the exhibition’s final painting.

I peered from behind a tall man I’d shuffled behind while they focused on her most risqué painting. Saw the death stare from Amanda’s wife. “How could you embarrass me like this?”

“What?  No way; the National Gallery purchased this, that’s the best ever vote of confidence in me.”

“Arty-farty bullshit. My company sponsors you; I pay your bills. And you repay me by painting porn.”

“No, darling. It’s a deep dive into the ambiguity of innocence.”

“Unacceptable. You should have remembered your place.”

My lover stuttered as she tried to conjure up some placating argument. She glanced around, her eyes clouded with the desperation of a deer who’s been caught in a rogue lorry’s headlights.

There was nothing I could do. Quickly checking my phone, I sighed with relief. Five per cent of the painting receipts had already been deposited in my bank account. My last pay check, maybe; Amanda would be almost as impoverished as me if her next stop was the divorce courts.

I turned on my heel, and bumped into Matilda near the gallery’s door.

She looked me up and down. Smirked. “You’re not as invisible as you imagine.”

I giggled. “I don’t know what you mean. I just like this outfit.”

“Sure you do. So, next Pride Parade you’ll wear it on the back of my Harley? But it’ll be too femme when I insist that you’re my successor as the dyke who leads our Pride Parade the following year.”

“Can’t, don’t have quality leathers.”

“I'll source them for you, dear …. So long as you’re not running out on Amanda.”

“There’s nothing I can do for her.”

“Tonight, that’s true. Did your father ever tell you that money was the root of all evil?”

“No, because that’s actually a misquote.”

“Don’t pedant me. To paint brilliantly, Amanda had to have a muse worthy of her. That’s never a cash transaction, dear.”

“Don’t judge. It's a woman’s age-old dilemma. Be with the one who floats your boat or the one who’ll pay your bills?” 

“Remember that young ballerina who was Degas’s muse?”

“God, yes. I love that painting.”

“Not just one, Degas painted her over twenty times. She never made the ballet company, so vanished into Parisian poverty. His art made her immortal.” 

“Yeah, but I'm me. A life to live, other peaks to scale, a decision to make.”

“No decision necessary. Look me in the eye and swear on the bible that using Amanda was just about the money.”

Busted. God save my immortal soul.  “You said you’d employ me because I was honest.”

“So …”

“I owe you for helping me find the key to get myself out of the closet.”

“So …”

“You might end up having to feed us.”

“Cafe meals will be on the house, dear. And …”

I hugged her. “Swear on the bible; swear to you too. I’ll be doing the right thing by Amanda.”