I drive fast on the highway at two in the morning, in the leftmost lane, radar detector on and wind in my hair. The radio is loud, Nine Inch Nails’ “Starfuckers Incorporated,” and I drive until I’m almost to Nevada, then turn around and come home, and I’m still not tired. I fuss over my works in progress until I could just burn them. All but the one. The painting of Shane, I don’t touch. I haven’t looked at it since she left. Jaz calls, and I blow her off. I scrub my kitchen floor, then the bathroom. I write and rewrite my notes for the show. I go to the gallery and drive Bette crazy with my thoughts on which paintings should go where. I paint until I can’t see straight anymore and Jaz calls again. I blow her off again, and make several dozen chocolate chip cookies, most of which I give to the neighbor kids. I start a seventh painting, a fragile spun-sugar girl peeking out from a black hood. In the glare of pink neon, mansions and palm trees burn to the ground. It is violent and abstract. I knew the title before I even picked up the brush. L.A. is Burning. I finish it in a flurry of pure color and then take a long bath. Then, I return to the studio, and revisit my painting of Shane. In the three days since I painted it, she has loomed larger than life in my thoughts and feelings – the taste of her, the feel of her, her gentle hands in my hair. Her shocking words and fragile admissions. Her intentions. Most of all, the choice she has offered me, and the promise she has not. But here on the canvas she is jarringly fragile and vulnerable, body curled as if against some threat, sweet and harmless in sleep. I stare at it for a good five minutes. I can’t not. Then I start mixing colors. I’m relieved when the process again sucks me in. I paint detail on her skin, her fingers catching in the red fringes of the dress, the pink of her nipples. Though sleep didn’t seem to suit the tension of the painting’s composition, I’m glad she did. The effect is of surrender. She let her tension go and trusted me. And she is more beautiful than I’ve ever imagined painting her. . I call Jaz the next day. “Sorry, girl, I was freaking out.” “I know. Better now?” “A nervous wreck about Friday. How is it you know everything I’m feeling but you can’t look into the future and tell me if this woman is going to break my heart or not.” “What, do I look like Miss Cleo the fake Jamaican?” I laugh. I needed that. “I love you, Jasmine.” “I know. I rock. Let’s go shopping and get you something for Friday.” The promise of retail therapy is perfect. Just the ticket. I am reminded of why I love Jaz so dearly. It works. We hit the stores. I forget Shane, for at least most of the time. I am torn between two outfits: a white suit with silky pants and a lace peasant top, and a white gauzy low-plunging dress with cap sleeves. “You need a new signature color, Bubbaleh.” Jaz mumbles. She’s not Jewish and she’s only three years older than me, but sometimes she calls me that anyway. “No way. Besides, the dress has gold in it.” “Go with the dress.” “I know. I am.” “Come on. We’re going to get you a manicure, my treat.” I groan. “Oh, no, not the Beverly.” “Oh, yes. Your hands are a mess. I see actual paint under your fingernails.” So Jaz drags me to Beverly Hills, and I find myself back on Rodeo, three blocks down from Shane Lex. Her sister is the head manicurist and she gets us squeezed in. I spend the entire time trying not to stare out the window. Then Jaz decides that I must have shoes, and of course for that she has to drag me down the street. Past Shane’s salon. “Has anyone ever told you how subtle you are?” “No.” “That’s because you’re ***** not.” She just grins and signs the credit card bill. Then we are outside, walking down the street past posh shops. I make her walk closest to the storefronts. I sort of want to hide. “You know, if you were curious, you could just wait to meet her at the opening.” “What fun would that be?” “God only knows.” “I wanna see the chick in her element.” “Then go get a haircut, but don’t drag me along.” “You’re free to leave any time,” she says, walking away from me, smiling over her shoulder. As we approach the salon I don’t see hide nor hair of Shane. Just letters on the glass. Of course Jaz turns and looks, nosey. I feel my face warming. We spend too much money on shoes. I buy a pair that requires breaking in, strappy gold pumps, and I wear them out. I have on white jeans, but with a red shirt, because I’ve been feeling very red lately. Very, very red. Flamingly, burningly red. We walk out the door and practically bump into Shane who is utterly gorgeous with wavy messy hair and bright berry-colored lips. She wears a very short skirt with knee-high boots and a black wife-beater. I look away from the shocking expanse of her legs. She is wearing shades but in the late day sun I can see right through them. “Hi,” she blurts when she sees me. “Hi,” I say. We stand there, shocked, like two junior high children. “How are you?” “Good. Just going on a coffee run.” Her eyes flicker to Jaz and then back to me. “It’s good to see you.” she says and the subtext is thick as honey. “Yeah, it is,” I smile. I know that I’m grinning like an idiot and Jaz is watching every second. “Um, this is Jasmine Reynolds, Jaz, Shane McCutcheon.” “Hi.” They shake hands and I try to figure out what in Shane’s grin is so intoxicating, trying to narrow it down to a single curve or quirk of her lips. “Nice to meet you.” Shane says genuinely. Was she always this sweet? I don’t remember. “Likewise. Clea’s mentioned you.” Shane smiles disarmingly, covering her face with an unmanicured hand. Her rings flash silver in the sunlight. “Whatever it is, it’s not true, honest.” So ***** adorable. It should be illegal. “Only good things. It’s good to meet you, too.” See how much of a non pain in the ***** Jaz can be when she wants? “Shane, I forgot to ask you – do you want on the list for Friday?” “Um, yeah. I wasn’t sure if you wanted…” “I do.” I smile. “I’ll be there,” She grins, almot goofily, the promise in her eyes. “Okay. Well, see ya then.” “Okay. Good meeting you, Jaz.” “You too.” She holds up her hand for a second more, and I glance over my shoulder at her for a second. “Bye.” I turn and try to walk and think at the same time. As soon as we are out of earshot Jaz takes a deep breath. “No,” I say, holding my hand up as if to stop her mouth. “No what?” “Whatever you were going to say, give me a minute to get my brain in working order before you ambush me.” “Tetchy tetchy.” We pass the salon and I have no desire to look inside. One foot after the other. See, it isn’t so hard. Three days. Three days. “Okay. Whatever it is, spit it out.” “You haven’t fucked her brains out yet because…?” “Next!” “I thought you said she was butch.” “She’s usually butcher. But on Friday, watch her walk. Next!” “Oh. I have one final question.” I roll my eyes and wait for the traffic light to change. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re in love?” I stare at her incredulously. “***** you, Jasmine.” “What the *****?” She yells as I dart across the street. “It’s a legitimate question!” Tourists turn to stare at her. . Wednesday finds me in the gallery, talking with Alice Pieszecki, a reporter from the Times. She is petite and blonde and fiesty, a little older than me. She wears a wedding ring and a trendy little pink dress. I’m late and she is already browsing through the gallery when I arrive. She is looking at L.A. is Burning. “Hi. Sorry I’m late.” “Hi. You’re Clea?” “Yep.” We shake hands. “Hello. I love your work.” “Thanks.” “And I’m not just saying that to kiss your *****.” “Okay. Um, thanks.” It’s been a long time since anyone’s worried about kissing my *****. “Want to walk me through it?” “Um, sure.” We walk aimlessly around the gallery. I’m nervous, but I fake it as well as usual. “So, explain the exhibit title to me.” “Um, well, it’s a reference to dialectical theory. Thesis, Antithesis, and Synthesis…” . I relax and walk her though the paintings. We return to L.A. is Burning. “I’m not sure if I love this one or hate it,” Alice says. “Me neither. This one is sort of an anomaly. Most of what I’ve done lately is portraits.” She glances at me, wondering if I’m trying to be coy. “What is it?” “It’s the worst day of my life.” “What happened?” “Everything changed. It’s about foundations crumbling, about there being no firm ground.” It was about the night of provocations. About the way I felt after I painted Shane. About feeling her mouth on me. About feeling my world open up, and that fear. “I dunno. Ask me about it in five years. Maybe I’ll have some objectivity about it then.” I feel her looking at me out of the corner of my eye, and I nervously wonder if she thinks I’m being a pretentious *****. I step forward until we are standing beside the painting of Shane. I watch her face, curious to see what she sees in it. Only a few people have seen it – Bette, Steve, Jaz, and Shane herself. “Wow,” she says, eyes roving over the naked skin. “Wait a minute. Is that Shane?!” Huh? I didn’t expect this reaction. “Yeah. You know her?” “Yeah, she’s like one of my best friends!” “Cool,” I say, trying not to look lost as I look at the beautiful sharp features on the canvas in front of me. “It’s weird to see her like this. I mean, I know she’s posed for paintings before, but wow, you’ve made her beautiful.” She’s already beautiful, I think. “This is astounding. I mean, what made you choose to go in this direction with her? It’s so romantic, so… intense. Erotocized.” “Femmy?” “Yeah, well, that’s not what I was going to say, but it is that. I mean, when I think of a painting of Shane, I think of something different.” “Really? Like what?” “Well, more butch for one. Edgier. But yet she’s still got her edge here. This is just amazing. I’d like to put this in the magazine, if I could.” “That’s fine with me. I’d like to check with her, just in case, but I doubt she’ll care.” “Are you kidding? It will be good for her business. She’s not exactly shy.” “Yeah.” “This is so wild. I didn’t know she knew you.” “Yeah, we go way back.” “How did you meet?” “She was a friend of my family, a long time ago.” “Oh,” Alice says, and her eyes go wide. Please, I think, don’t let that be the look of two and two being put together. It’s a moot point, because three canvases down is a portrait of my mom, entitled simply Portrait of Cherie Jaffee. “That’s great. A relative?” “My mother.” If she knows more backstory than that she doesn’t let on. I finish giving Alice the rundown. “What’s the painting of Shane called?” she asks, before leaving. “I don’t know. At the moment it’s Untitled #32.” “Oh.” “If I think of a name before Friday, I’ll let you know.” Alice leaves and I stare at the painting of Shane, pondering the question. No title I can think of does it justice.