An androgynous, red-haired figure

Painted in a frenzy of visibly but deliberate brushstrokes sits a ginger-haired individual. Dressed as you, posed as you, but not you. You see few parallels between them and yourself. You with your utterly forgettable features; a standard frame, brown hair, and all the posturing one would expect from the son of a middling deskworker. The figure (the woman?) who gazes back is one you might describe as Celtic, but only if **** to. She has the vibrant, red hair one would expect, but touches of duskyness to her skin and the angles of her symmetrical face betray something else. She's unfamiliar, but undoubtedly sublime.

"You didn't paint me, then?", you inquire with curiosity.

"Physically speaking? No. You did, however, serve as all the reference I needed. All I was really looking to capture was the posture, faces and such just come to me. Thank god for the Impressionists, really, they made it so much easier to play loose with faces. Oh, one more thing if you could?"

Your curiosity piqued, you nod to her. She withdraws a small, folding-blade knife from a pocket of her handbag and gives it to you. Slowly, gently, she goes about lifting the torso-sized canvas from its stand and holds the wooden frame to the back of it for you to see.

Along the wooden frame runs a network of small, intricate symbols shallowly carved into the wood.

"Upper right corner. Finish it for me." Astrid says gently.

You see an intricate, knotlike mass of carved lines where she said. Almost perfect. With a firm hand guided by instinct, you open the knife and impress a gentle, smooth arc onto the outer edge of the symbol. It just feels right.

"Thank you, Eden", Astrid says before returning the canvas to its stand and taking back the knife. "Don't think much of it, just a superstition I picked up from a professor at university. Some of the queerer buyers eat that sort of thing up." She reaches into her handbag again and hands you a ten dollar bill with a smile. Generous pay. She can, after all, afford it. "I'll call on you again if you're interested. You make a nice model." You smile at that and affirm you'd enjoy such.

Walking into Astrid's marble-floored bathroom, you pull off the silk gown and return to normal, proper clothing: trousers and a white button-up shirt. Not classy, but more than passable. Taking care to fold the expensive gown, you walk back into the main foyer of her house and offer it back to her.

"Keep, it, Eden. I got it from a friend in Spain last year and frankly don't need it in my wardrobe. Some lady friend of yours in the future might love it as a gift." So it was a woman's dress. How wonderful.

"One more thing!", Astrid yells to you as you start to make your way toward the door. "I'm assuming you haven't been to any real parties, seeing how you've been in the city all of ten days?"

"What do you mean by 'real parties'?"

"No, then. Seeing how you're here as an artist, you'll love them. Nine tomorrow evening at Grosmans on Tenth Street. Dress nicely and you can come along with me. It's a great chance to make friends in our circles."

"Thank you", you say in earnest. "I won't be late." You walk out the door, sore from the waist down but feeling the best you have since you arrived here last week. After takung the elevator down from her tenth floor flat, you find yourself in the lobby, staring through tall windows onto a twilight street of cars and well-dressed passerbys.