"Sure."

"Well—Gigi, this was when I was Johann Smith and very old and very ill. I hurt all the time but couldn't stand heavy dosage of painkillers. Had to tough it. But here was Eunice, lovely as a flower and cute as a kitten, painted to look like a mermaid, and—Joe, this is the silly part. I don't think I noticed any pain all day long, I was so busy trying to figure something out. And never could. Was that a real brassiere Eunice had on? Or paint?"

Joe looked smugly pleased. "Paint. Fool-the-eye." (Boss, I bid you that.) (Yes, little imp—and sometimes you fib, too.)

"You certainly fooled my eye. I could see those big sea shells, I could almost feel their rough texture. Then Eunice would turn in profile—and I wouldn't be sure. I spent that whole day staring while trying to seem not to. Joe, you're a great artist. It's a shame you prefer canvas to skin."

"Not quite right Like to paint skin on canvas. Fool-the-eye forever. Not just one day."

"I stand corrected. Like that one." Joan nodded at the easel. "Gigi, let me do the dishes, please. I want to."

"Pile in sink," Joe ordered. "Inspiration. Two-figure compo."

"Okay, Joe," Gigi answered. "Joan Eunice, do you feel up to posing late? Joe said ‘Two-figure' so he means you, too. But I warn you, when Joe says ‘Inspiration,' you don't get much sleep."

"No," Joe denied. "Can short it. Cheat some. Get pose right, shoot eight, nine, ten shots. Then—" He suddenly looked distressed, turned to Joan. "Maybe not here tomorrow? Or could be, not want to pose. Damn, I forget! Think you sleep here. Crazy. Damn!"

Joan said, "I don't have to be anywhere at any time, Joe, and I would be greatly honored to pose for you. But—" She turned to Gigi. "May I stay tonight? Is it all right?"

"Oh, sure!"

"I wonder. Since you showed me your wedding ring I've been wondering how much I am butting in."

Gigi giggled. "Hon, if you think that's a ring in Joe's nose—well, I'd better never think so. Joan, I left Sam a good month before I let Joe give me that ring and marry me. Cubical and comical, couldn't believe he meant it. I can't think of another couple we know who are married. It's nice—but I still get the giggles. Sure you stay if you want to. We got a cot to set up—not much but we'll put Joe on it."

(Watch it, Boss! This is dynamite—ten to one Joe won't be on that cot.) (Of course not. I will be. Think I'm a fool?) (Sadly, I do, Boss. You're lovable—but you just barely have sense enough to stay out of lifts. Not out of beds.) (Joe wants me to pose, I pose! If he wants anything else, he can have that, too! Anything.)

(That's what I thought.) (Eunice, Joe doesn't want me. Gigi is his woman now.) (Okay, twin. But when did I last hear you say that marriage isn't a form of death?)

Joe Branca appeared to regard the matter as settled; housekeeping details seemed of no interest to him.- He said,

"You oil after shower?" and reached out and fingered Joan's left ribs. "No. Gigi."

"Chop chop, Joe." Gigi ducked into the bath, returned with a bottle of olive oil. She said to Joan, "Lanolin is as good, but I'd rather smell like a salad than a Sheep. Joe, get her ribs; I'll do her leg. Then we give you a quick oiling all over, hon, and wipe you down. Get all off that your skin doesn't absorb. Mmm, some red paint back here where you can't see, but olive oil cuts it. Joan, I've had twice as good a complexion since Joe has been making me take care of my skin."

"You have a perfect skin, Gigi."

"Joe's a tyrant about it. Now for a wipe down."

"Not too much wipe," Joe warned. "Need highlights in cheat shots."

"Easy on the wipe down. Some oil on me, Joe?"

"Da."

"Okay, Maestro. Joan, we'll polish each other bone dry before we go to bed. If we're not too tired to care—no importa, disposable sheets. Joe, are you going to tell your slaves what this pic is?"

"Sure, need acting. Gut acting. Lez pic."

"Hunh? Joe, you can't put Joan in such a pic. You can't."

"Wait, Mate. I don' draw comic books. You know. Pic so square can hang in church. But symbols so gut-loaded old butch pays top money. But—Joan Eunice, can change face if you say?" He looked anxious.

"Joe, paint the way you want to. If somebody recognizes me in. one of your paintings, I'll be proud."

"Okay." Rapidly Joe Branca built a low platform of boards on boxes, heaped floor cushions on top, covered it all with a ragged heavy cloth. "Throne, Gigi first. Gigi butch, Joan Eunice sweetheart." He moved them like lay figures, shoving them into position like a butcher handling meat, so that Gigi was supported by cushions while she held Joan in her arms and looked into Joan's eyes. Joan's position figleafed Gigi; Joe raised Joan's left knee so that she figleafed herself. Then he placed Gigi's right hand under Joan's left breast, not cupping it but touching—stepped back and scowled.

—stepped forward, changed the composition slightly, moving them so little that Joan could not guess what difference it made. Apparently satisfied, he shoved cushions in more tightly so that each could hold the pose without strain.

He placed a platter just below them, slanted with careful casualness. "Is Greek lyre," he said. "Title, ‘Bilitis Sings.' Song just pau, action not yet. Golden moment between." He looked at them carefully, still scowling. "Joan Eunice, you knocked up?"

Joan was very startled. "Does it show? I haven't gained an ounce." (Erase and correct—nineteen ounces.) (Yes, but not enough to show. Aside from pizza just now, I've stuck to Roberto's diet. You know I have.)

Joe shook his head. "Figure not show. You happy, Joan Eunice?"

"Joe, I'm dreadfully happy about it. But I haven't told anyone yet."

"Be easy, Louisie; Gigi don' yatter." He smiled in benison and Joan saw for the first time how beautiful he could be. "What counts, you happy. Happy mama, happy baby. Knocked-up broads look different. Better. Skin glows, muscles firm, folds under eyes fill out. Whole body better tone. Eye can see but most can't see what they see. Lucky I got you for model right now. But solves problem been eatin' me."

"What, Joe? How?" (Eunice, is this all right?) (Sure, twin. Joe approves of babies as long as he doesn't have to bother with them. He's pleased that you are happy—and doesn't think about how it happened or what you'll do about it. But not callous. If you were broke, he would take you in and try to support your baby and still not ask where you got it. He doesn't find the world complex, dear—so it isn't... to him.)

"Puzzle problem. You look like Eunice, how else? But look better. Impossible. Know why now. Any broad looks best doin' her thing."

"Joe, do you think pregnant women are beautiful later? Say eight, or nearly nine mouths gone?"

"Sure!" Joe seemed surprised that she would ask. "More beautiful. Healthy, happy woman ready to drop—how not? Top symbol of The All. Shut up now. Work."

"Please, Joe, one more question. Will you paint me when I'm big as a house? Between eight and nine months? Could be a cheat job. Might have to be, I might not be able to pose very long when I'm heaviest."

He smiled in delight. "You bet, Annette! Artist don' get that chance much. Most broads silly about it. But now shut up. Must look gutsy, so think gutsy. Don' act—be. Sweaty, eager. Joan Eunice, Gigi's got you set up, eager. But scared. Virgin. Gigi, you just eager. Maybe gloating, but think, don't do. Not even face. Just think."

He stopped to reposition lights, scowled at his models, changed his lights a little, brushed an oily rag on Gigi's right shoulder and breast. "Is right! Nipples up? Joan Eunice, can't you get ‘em tight? Try thinking about men, not Gigi."