A Musée d'Orsay Encounter Pt. 02

Sex is awkward at the best of times, but that's what makes it great. Imperfection perfection.

SCENE 1: THE CUPBOARD

Bleach stink. Metal shelves digging into her back. One pathetic bulb flickering overhead. The chemical reek of industrial cleaners mixing with her Hermès Cavaliers du Caucase perfume. Their first encounter began with her scarf - that same silk Hermès with the gold threading that he'd returned to her that morning.

ETHAN has CLÉMENCE backed against the storage rack, hands shaking while he shoves her skirt up. Her silk underwear feels expensive beneath his fingers. Nothing like the cotton crap college girls wear back in Chicago.

ETHAN

'You sure about this?'

CLÉMENCE

'Yes. Now.'

He fumbles with his zipper. Fuck, it's stuck. When he finally yanks it down, he's already hard, precum staining his boxers.

ETHAN

'I don't have a-'

CLÉMENCE

'It's fine. Just do it.'

She reaches down, guides him. He pushes too eagerly, misses completely, slides against her thigh.

CLÉMENCE

'Wait. Let me.'

Hand between them, positioning him right. This time he slides in. Christ, she feels amazing.

ETHAN

'Holy shit.'

He starts moving. No rhythm whatsoever. Knocks a bottle of cleaner off the shelf with his elbow. Loud clatter. They freeze.

CLÉMENCE

'Quiet, idiot.'

She wraps her stockinged legs around his waist, those Italian hand-stitched stockings with the perfect seam up the back. One heel digs into his ass. The metal shelving creaks with each thrust. Sounds like it'll collapse any second.

ETHAN

'Am I... is this-'

CLÉMENCE

'Deeper. There.'

Sweat running down his back. Even with all the Olympic tourists clogging the museum, he never expected this. Her perfume mixing with cleaning chemicals. Watching her face change as she gets closer.

[Breaking fourth wall]

Look, I know you're not gonna believe me. I wouldn't believe me. This French curator's wife with her fancy clothes and her perfect accent, letting some random art student screw her against the janitor's supplies. But I swear to god it happened exactly like this. All because I returned her Hermès scarf this morning, and now I'm studying the goddamn negative space between us.

Her breathing gets faster. Her body squeezes around him.

CLÉMENCE

'Je vais... I'm going to-'

He slaps his hand over her mouth as she comes. Feels her moan against his palm. That's all it takes. He buries his face in her neck, trying not to make noise as he empties inside her.

They stand there, still joined, breathing hard. Lipstick smeared all over her face. All over him too, probably. His cum already leaking down her thigh.

The speakers crackle: 'Le musée fermera dans cinq minutes.'

CLÉMENCE

'Merde. We need to go.'

She untangles herself from him, grabs tissues from her purse. Wipes between her legs fast, adjusts her clothes like she's done this before. Button missing from her blouse. She tucks it to hide the gap.

ETHAN

'When can I see you again?'

The question hangs there. Stupid. She studies him. A married woman who just let some kid fuck her against the Pine-Sol. She should feel bad. She clearly doesn't.

CLÉMENCE

'Tuesday. Three o'clock.'

Writes an address on a business card. Hands it to him. Their fingers touch.

CLÉMENCE

'Wait five minutes after I leave. Exit by the gift shop.'

Checks herself in a compact mirror. Fixes her lipstick. Smooths her hair. Gone.

Alone now. His heart still pounding like crazy. The card in his hand feels unreal. Like winning the lottery and finding a unicorn, all at once. He flips it over - an address in the 6th arrondissement, written in elegant script with her fountain pen.

---

SCENE 2: THE APARTMENT

Tiny street in the 6th arrondissement. Wedged between a bakery and some dusty bookshop. ETHAN checks the address again. Wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. Knocks three times on the heavy wooden door.

Waits forever. Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe this whole thing was-

Lock turns. Door opens.

CLÉMENCE looks nothing like the museum. Hair down. Simple black dress. Those stockings with the seams up the back. No wedding ring today. The Olympic rings pin she was wearing at the museum is gone too.

ETHAN

'You're here. I mean, hi.'

CLÉMENCE

'It's my apartment. Where else would I be?'

He steps inside. Holy shit. High ceilings. Wood floors in that classic herringbone pattern. Windows letting in streaks of afternoon sun. A desk covered in papers. Bookshelves everywhere. Smells like old books and expensive candles.

CLÉMENCE

'This is my pied-à-terre. For writing, Philippe believes.'

ETHAN

'Is it? For writing?'

CLÉMENCE

'Sometimes.'

[Breaking fourth wall]

So my thesis was about negative space in Impressionist paintings, right? Standing in that apartment, I finally got it. Negative space isn't empty - it's where the real story happens. This whole secret life she built in the gaps when no one was looking. The person she really was when her husband wasn't around. Like Degas understood with his ballet dancers - the tension between what's shown and what's hidden.

She moves through the place like she owns it. Well, she does. Sets down her bag. Takes off her jacket. Completely different from the frantic mess in the cleaning cupboard.

ETHAN

'This place is insane. Like a movie set.'

CLÉMENCE

'The building dates from the 1870s. All the Olympic renovation has only improved the neighborhood. Degas might have walked these halls.'

She uncorks a wine bottle. Pours two glasses. The light hits her just right. Shows off her neck, her waist, the curve of her hip through the dress.

ETHAN

'Won't your husband wonder where you are?'

CLÉMENCE

'Tuesdays I have my writing group. For my never-finished novel.'

ETHAN

'Is there really a group?'

CLÉMENCE

'There was. Not anymore.'

She sips her wine. Watches him over the glass. All that happened between them Sunday sits in the air.

CLÉMENCE

'We should talk about what this is.'

ETHAN

'Do we have to?'

Steps closer. Touches her face. Not rushed like before. Thumb traces along her jaw. Stops at the corner of her mouth.

CLÉMENCE

'You're very young.'

ETHAN

'That bother you more than being married?'

CLÉMENCE

'My marriage is... complicated. Your youth isn't. I have a son nearly your age.'

He finds her scarf. The same Hermès silk from the museum. Slowly unwraps it from her throat.

ETHAN

'You wore this on purpose.'

CLÉMENCE

'Perhaps. A reminder of how things begin.'

They kiss. Not desperate like Sunday. Slower. His hands find the buttons on her dress. Fumble.

ETHAN

'Sorry, I'm not usually-'

CLÉMENCE

'We have time.'

First button shows the hollow of her throat. Second reveals her collarbone. Third exposes black lace against skin.

CLÉMENCE

'La chambre. À droite.'

ETHAN

'Huh?'

CLÉMENCE

'Bedroom. Right there.'

Takes his hand. Leads him down a hall. Opens a door.

---

SCENE 3: THE BEDROOM

All cream and gold. Bed with sheets that probably cost more than his rent. Art books stacked on the nightstand. Degas sketch of a ballet dancer on the wall - an original, not a print.

CLÉMENCE stands near the bed. Dress half-unbuttoned. Black lace peeking through.

ETHAN

'This what you wanted Sunday?'

CLÉMENCE

'Yes. This. You.'

Finishes unbuttoning her dress. Lets it pool at her feet. Stands there in black lingerie. Those stockings with perfect seams running up the back, the ones she mentioned were hand-stitched by Italian artisans.

ETHAN

'Jesus.'

CLÉMENCE

'Your turn.'

They undress each other. His body's what you'd expect. Twenty years old. Firm. Smooth. Hers tells stories. C-section scar below her belly button. Stretch marks on her hips. Small breasts that nursed children.

ETHAN

'You're fucking gorgeous.'

CLÉMENCE

'I'm not twenty anymore. My body isn't like your college girls.'

ETHAN

'Good. I've seen enough twenty-year-old bodies. They're like student paintings - all technique, no experience.'

She sits on the bed. Watches as he digs in his bag. Pulls out her stockings from Sunday. Torn now.

ETHAN

'Can I?'

CLÉMENCE

'That's what you want?'

ETHAN

'Since I first saw you.'

She holds out her wrists. Consent without words. He ties them to the headboard. Not too tight. Just enough that she can't easily get free. Black silk against her skin.

[Breaking fourth wall]

You think I knew what the hell I was doing? Not a chance. My figure drawing professor covered the female form, but not this. Not a real woman waiting for you, giving up control but somehow still running the whole show. That wasn't in the curriculum. In art terms, she was the negative space - the absence that defined everything around her. And here she was, letting me fill that space, at least for these Tuesday afternoons.

CLÉMENCE

'Where did you learn to tie knots?'

ETHAN

'Eagle Scouts. Mom forced me.'

He kneels between her legs. Just looks for a minute. Takes her in.

ETHAN

'Tell me what you like.'

CLÉMENCE

'Show me what you know first.'

He kisses her inner thigh. Moves higher. Tastes her. Different from college girls. More complex. Like comparing boxed wine to vintage Bordeaux.

CLÉMENCE

'Oui... comme ça... n'arrête pas...'

Adds fingers. Curves them inside. Her body responds instantly. Thighs trembling.

CLÉMENCE

'Je vais jouir... oh mon Dieu...'

Back arches off the bed as she comes against his mouth. Before she recovers, he moves up. Pushes inside. Nearly loses it right there.

ETHAN

'Look at me.'

She does. Eyes heavy but focused on his face as he fucks her. Headboard banging against the wall.

CLÉMENCE

'So demanding for such a young man. Tu me surprends.'

ETHAN

'You love it though.'

He's right. She does. The dynamic - her tied up but still somehow in charge. His youth balanced against her experience.

She tightens around him again. Building toward another orgasm. He feels it. Shifts angle to go deeper.

ETHAN

'I'm gonna come. Should I pull out?'

CLÉMENCE

'Non. Inside. I want to feel you.'

That does it. He comes hard. Hips jerking against hers. When he finally pulls out, they both watch his cum leak onto her expensive sheets.

CLÉMENCE

'Un désordre délicieux.'

ETHAN

'What's that mean?'

CLÉMENCE

'A delicious mess.'

He unties her wrists. Rubs the marks gently. Surprisingly tender for a kid his age. His gaze lingers on the way light catches her body, the curves and planes that have known both pleasure and pain, birth and aging, a body with history unlike the unwritten pages of girls his age.

---

SCENE 4: THE SHOWER

Steam everywhere. CLÉMENCE against the tile wall. Leg wrapped around ETHAN's waist as he thrusts into her. Water pouring down their bodies.

CLÉMENCE

'Plus fort... plus vite...'

He tries. Slips on the wet floor. Nearly wipes out completely.

ETHAN

'Shit! Almost killed us both.'

They laugh. Then her hand guides him back inside her. They find a slower rhythm that works. Water turns cold before they finish. Neither cares.

Later, wrapped in towels, they're in the kitchen. Something shifted between them. Easier now.

ETHAN

'When can I see you again?'

CLÉMENCE

'Tuesdays. Only Tuesdays.'

ETHAN

'Next week then?'

CLÉMENCE

'Yes. Same time.'

ETHAN

'What about weekends? Saturday I could-'

CLÉMENCE

'Only Tuesdays, Ethan. I have a life. Commitments.'

ETHAN

'A husband.'

CLÉMENCE

'Yes. And children.'

Reality check. Kills the mood faster than his parents walking in.

CLÉMENCE

'If that's not enough...'

ETHAN

'No, it's fine. Tuesdays work. Tuesdays are great.'

---

SCENE 5: THE EXPERIMENT

Another Tuesday. Rain patters against the tall windows of CLÉMENCE's pied-à-terre. Outside, Paris tourists huddle under umbrellas, unaware of what's happening four floors above them. ETHAN stands nervously by the bedroom doorway, a small black box in his hand.

CLÉMENCE emerges from the bathroom wrapped in that silk robe with the faint Hermès pattern. Hair still damp at the edges. No makeup today. More beautiful somehow.

CLÉMENCE

'You brought something.'

Not a question. She notices everything.

ETHAN

'Uh, yeah. From that shop in the Marais. The one with the, like, sex stuff.'

A smile tugs at her lips. Amused by his awkwardness.

CLÉMENCE

'The one with the purple awning?'

ETHAN

'Wait, you know it?'

CLÉMENCE

'You sound surprised.'

ETHAN

'I just... I dunno. I had to psych myself up to go in there.'

She extends her hand, palm up. Command without words.

ETHAN

'It might be stupid.'

CLÉMENCE

'Show me.'

Man, I was sweating bullets. Like I was turning in my final thesis to the toughest professor in the department. Except instead of art theory, I was submitting a cock ring for approval. And she was standing there with that look -- half amused, half curious -- like I was some experiment she was conducting. The psychology of the horny American student. Shit, maybe I was.

ETHAN hands over the box. Their fingers brush. Still that electricity. CLÉMENCE opens it with elegant fingers. Inside: a matte black silicone ring.

CLÉMENCE raises an eyebrow. Impressed, maybe.

CLÉMENCE

'This is forward.'

ETHAN

'Too much? I can just--'

CLÉMENCE

'Non. Unexpected.'

She lifts it from the box. Studies it like a curator examining a new acquisition.

CLÉMENCE

'You've used one before?'

ETHAN

'Honestly? No. But I looked it up on Reddit and--'

She laughs. A genuine sound that fills the room.

CLÉMENCE

'Of course you did. Research before execution.'

His face flushes. Still so easy for her to make him feel like a freshman in senior seminar.

CLÉMENCE approaches, her robe parting slightly. Places the ring in his palm, then closes his fingers around it.

CLÉMENCE

'I want to watch you put it on.'

She steps back. Settles onto the edge of the bed. Lets her robe fall open but not off. A curator arranging her exhibition.

ETHAN undresses awkwardly. T-shirt over head. Jeans kicked away. Standing before her in just boxers, already visibly aroused.

ETHAN

'So I'm not 100% sure how this works.'

CLÉMENCE

'The package had no instructions?'

ETHAN

'I was too embarrassed to ask the guy at the counter. He had, like, fourteen facial piercings and probably thought I was some dumb tourist.'

She laughs again.

CLÉMENCE

'It goes on when you're hard. The larger loop around your testicles first, then the smaller one at the base of your cock.'

The clinical precision of her words somehow makes it more erotic. Her French accent turning anatomy into art.

ETHAN slips off his boxers. Tries to follow her instructions. The silicone resists, then gives. It feels weird. Tight in a way he's not used to.

ETHAN

'Fuck, that's intense.'

CLÉMENCE

'Too much?'

ETHAN

'No, just... different.'

He looks ridiculous, standing there naked with this black ring squeezing his junk, but she doesn't laugh. Instead, she looks... interested. Like he's a new exhibit she's considering.

She stands. Approaches him like a sculpture she's considering for purchase. Circles him once. Evaluating.

CLÉMENCE

'The point is to maintain erection. Enhance sensitivity. Delay climax.'

ETHAN

'Does it look stupid?'

CLÉMENCE

'Non. It looks... promising.'

She removes her robe completely. Stands naked before him. No shame in her body's history. The cesarean scar. The stretch marks on her hips. Beauty earned through living.

CLÉMENCE

'Come here.'

He does. She guides him to the bed. Positions him on his back. His cock stands at attention, the ring making it more pronounced, almost comically eager.

CLÉMENCE reaches for her stockings. The ones she'd worn earlier. Italian silk with the hand-stitched seams up the back. Still warm from her body.

CLÉMENCE

'Open your mouth.'

ETHAN

'Wait, what?'

CLÉMENCE

'Trust me.'

He does, not questioning. She rolls one stocking, pushes it gently between his lips. The taste of her skin still lingering on the fabric. It should be weird. It is weird. But also incredibly hot.

CLÉMENCE

'If it's too much, tap my thigh three times. Like this.'

Demonstrates. He nods, unable to speak, which is kind of the point.

CLÉMENCE

'Good boy.'

Jesus Christ. Those two words go straight to his already aching cock.

She straddles him. The ring makes him painfully hard. More sensitive than he's ever been. Her weight settles on his thighs. Testing him.

CLÉMENCE

'Now we'll see how long you last.'

Takes him in her hand. Guides him to her entrance. Sinks down slowly. His eyes roll back at the sensation. The stocking muffles his groan.

CLÉMENCE

'Look at me.'

His eyes snap open. Find hers. The control in her gaze centers him.

CLÉMENCE

'Feel everything. Every sensation. This is art too, you know. The discipline of pleasure.'

She begins to move. Slow at first. The cock ring amplifies everything. It's almost too much. Sensory overload. Like that time he tried edibles before the Louvre. All the art coming at him at once.

If my roommates could see me now. They'd never believe it. The stocking in my mouth tasted like her skin, like expensive perfume. The ring was squeezing me so tight I thought I might pass out. And there she was, riding me like she was breaking in a new stallion. My art history professor kept talking about the "sublime" in French painting -- that moment where beauty and terror meet. This was it. Right here. Me gagged with an Italian stocking while a French woman twice my age used my cock like her personal toy. Sublimely fucking terrifying.

CLÉMENCE watches his face. Reads his responses. Adjusts accordingly. Slows when he's close. Speeds up when he steadies. The perfect curator of this experience.

CLÉMENCE

'You're doing well. Better than I expected.'

The praise hits differently than the physical sensation. Something warm blooms in his chest.

She leans forward. Whispers in his ear.

CLÉMENCE

'When I remove the stocking, you may come. Not before.'

Her pace increases. Her own pleasure building. He struggles to hold back. The ring helps, but barely. When she starts to shudder, her breath coming faster, he thinks he might lose the battle.

Then suddenly she's removing the stocking. The cool air hits his damp lips.

CLÉMENCE

'Maintenant.'

He doesn't need translation. His body responds instantly to her command. The release more intense than anything he's experienced. Stars behind his eyelids. Actual fucking stars.

ETHAN

'Holy shit... holy shit...'

It's all he can say. His vocabulary reduced to profanity and awe.

Afterward, she helps remove the ring. He winces. Sensitive as hell. They lie together, her head on his chest.

ETHAN

'So, uh... where'd you learn about those?'

CLÉMENCE

'I've been married twenty years, Ethan. I've had time to explore.'

ETHAN

'With Philippe?'

Her laugh again. Soft this time.

CLÉMENCE

'Some questions shouldn't be asked. Especially on Tuesdays.'

She traces patterns on his chest. The sunlight shifts across the room. In an hour she'll be back to being Madame Clémence Dubois, respectable curator's wife. He'll be just another American student sketching at the Musée d'Orsay.

But for now, in this negative space they've created, they're just bodies learning each other's landscapes. The boundaries they push becoming art itself.

---

SCENE 6: THE PHOTOGRAPHY SESSION

Weeks later. Golden hour light fills the apartment. CLÉMENCE on the bed wearing just those seamed stockings. Posed like a painting. The Degas dancer from the wall watching over them.

ETHAN messes with his iPhone. Opens some photography app with filters. Swipes through options. Stops on one that makes black and white look grainy and old school.

ETHAN

'You know that von Unwerth exhibit? The pictures at Hotel Amour?'

CLÉMENCE

'Where she's looking over her shoulder? Just stockings and a cigarette?'

ETHAN

'Yeah. Turn like that.'

She shifts. Transforms completely. From professor's wife to something from a high-end fashion magazine. Those stocking seams drawing your eye up her legs.

ETHAN

'These are sick. The filter nails that grainy look she does.'

CLÉMENCE

'Different tools, same vision. The technology changes, but the gaze remains the same.'

He checks security settings. Activates hidden folder. Face ID protection.

ETHAN

'Nobody sees these but me. Promise.'

CLÉMENCE

'The digital version of a locked drawer. Très moderne.'

She takes his phone. Studies the images. Her body in stark black and white. Light and shadow making art of her curves, her age, her beauty.

CLÉMENCE

'My turn now.'

Directs him to lie on the bed. Still dressed but shirt open. Arranges him like von Unwerth would a man.

CLÉMENCE

'She captures women through a female gaze. What would her male version be?'

Takes several shots. Reviews them critically.

CLÉMENCE

'You're natural. Camera loves youth.'

ETHAN

'And experience.'

---

SCENE 6: BOUND

Another Tuesday. CLÉMENCE kneeling. Hands tied behind her back with her Italian stockings. ETHAN standing over her, hand in her hair.

Man, if you could see this. The same woman who last week gave a lecture at the Sorbonne - I snuck in to watch - now on her knees, hands bound, looking up at me. You'd think I had all the power here. We both know better. Even like this, she's running the show. Like Degas's dancers - restraint and control simultaneously. C'est indécent, what we're doing. And fucking beautiful.

CLÉMENCE looks up. Challenge in her eyes. This position isn't submission. It's control from a different angle.

ETHAN

'You good?'

CLÉMENCE

'Don't ask foolish questions.'

Takes him in her mouth. The sight alone nearly finishes him. Her technique makes college hookups seem like amateur hour.

ETHAN

'Fuck... Clémence... gonna come if you keep--'

Works him expertly. Knows exactly when to speed up, slow down. When he's close, she pulls back. Denies him.

CLÉMENCE

'Not yet. Inside me.'

He helps her up, still bound. Bends her over the bed. Enters from behind. One hand still tangled in her hair.

ETHAN

'Tell me you want this.'

CLÉMENCE

'I wouldn't be here if I didn't.'

ETHAN

'Say it anyway.'

A pause. The student challenging the teacher.

CLÉMENCE

'Je te veux. I want you. Now stop talking.'

Something's shifting between them. His confidence growing. Her trust deepening. The power constantly rebalancing. Like the negative space in his thesis - the relationship defined as much by what isn't said as what is.

Afterward, he unties her carefully. Kisses the marks on her wrists.

CLÉMENCE

'You learn quickly.'

ETHAN

'Had a good teacher.'

---

SCENE 8: THE PARTING

Suitcases by the door. University of Chicago stickers plastered all over them. ETHAN gathering his stuff. Sketchbook. Charcoals. Memories.

CLÉMENCE at her desk. Package wrapped in tissue paper waiting.

ETHAN

'Flight's at seven tomorrow.'

CLÉMENCE

'You should be at Charles de Gaulle by four. The Olympic crowds are making security worse than usual.'

ETHAN

'Three hours? Seriously?'

CLÉMENCE

'For international flights, it's necessary.'

Small talk covering everything they're not saying. He picks up a sketch of her from weeks ago. Tucks it into his portfolio.

CLÉMENCE

'Come here.'

He crosses over. She stands. Hands him the package.

CLÉMENCE

'To remember.'

ETHAN

'I don't need anything for that.'

CLÉMENCE

'It's not for remembering me. It's for remembering who you were with me.'

He tears the paper. Inside, a silk scarf. Blues and grays like the Vermeer they saw together.

ETHAN

'This must've cost a fortune.'

CLÉMENCE

'Philippe has one similar.'

He gets it immediately. She'll see parts of him in her everyday life. Their secret woven into her routine.

Wraps it around his neck. Soft against his skin.

CLÉMENCE

'One last time. Before you go.'

Kneels in front of him. Reaches for his belt. The image burns into his brain forever. This woman on her knees for him one final time.

Later, tangled in sheets. His head on her stomach. Her fingers in his hair.

ETHAN

'Will you ever come to Chicago?'

CLÉMENCE

'Philippe lectures at Northwestern sometimes.'

ETHAN

'But this was just...'

CLÉMENCE

'A moment. Ce qui se passe dans l'espace négatif. What happens in the negative space. Worth having.'

She gets up suddenly. Grabs his phone from the nightstand.

CLÉMENCE

'Last thing. For your memory.'

Poses on the bed. Lets her robe fall open. The light perfect on her body. The curves and angles he's memorized.

ETHAN

'No one will ever see these.'

CLÉMENCE

'They better not. Or I'll have you blacklisted from every gallery in Europe.'

ETHAN

'Just for me. Always.'

Light fades outside. They dress quietly. When he leaves, the scarf holds her scent. Chanel, wine, them.

---

SCENE 9: CHICAGO GALLERY - TEN YEARS LATER

River North gallery. White walls. Concrete floors. People with wine glasses mumbling about art. ETHAN (30) different now. Confidence in how he stands. Decent haircut finally. Tailored jacket. That silk Hermès scarf still around his neck after all these years.

Talking to some curator when the door opens. Looks up. Freezes.

A couple enters. Him silver-haired, distinguished. Her still unmistakable despite the decade. CLÉMENCE (56) hair shorter now. Some silver strands. Same elegant posture. Same intensity in her eyes.

Ethan excuses himself. Momentarily stunned. Gallery assistant appears.

ASSISTANT

'Tribune critic wants a statement about your inspiration.'

ETHAN

'In a minute.'

Watches PHILIPPE drift toward some academic type. CLÉMENCE left alone. She moves to a large canvas titled 'Tuesday Light.' A woman's reflection. Bound wrists. Unexpected freedom in her expression.

Ethan approaches. Stands beside her like he's just studying the painting too.

ETHAN

'It's about memory. How touch stays with you. The negative space between moments.'

She doesn't turn right away. Small smile forms.

CLÉMENCE

'The artist captures intimacy well. Like he knows his subject's body properly. Like he understands where to look in the spaces between.'

ETHAN

'He does. She taught him to see differently.'

Now she faces him. Lines around her eyes now. More beautiful somehow.

CLÉMENCE

'The artist has matured. Still something young there though.'

ETHAN

'Some subjects do that to you.'

The conversation hangs between them. Loaded with meaning.

PHILIPPE

'Clémence! We need to go. Early flight.'

She nods without looking away from Ethan.

CLÉMENCE

'Art Institute board meeting tomorrow. Philippe's advising on their Dutch collection acquisition.'

ETHAN

'How long are you in Chicago?'

CLÉMENCE

'Three weeks. Though Philippe leaves for New York on Friday.'

From her bag, a business card. Their fingers touch passing it. Same electricity, even now.

On the back, her handwriting: 'Tuesday, 3pm.'

PHILIPPE

'Interesting work. Bit derivative of Schiele, but contemporary.'

ETHAN

'Thanks. Your wife has a good eye.'

PHILIPPE

'Indeed. Though she prefers Impressionists. Always liked the sentimental.'

CLÉMENCE

'Not sentimental. Just alive in the moment. L'espace négatif est où la vie se passe vraiment.'

They leave. She looks back once. Ten years of Tuesdays in that glance.

That night, in his studio, Ethan adds something to an unfinished painting. In the corner, where only someone really looking would notice, two words in his best attempt at elegant script:

*'Je me souviens.'*

I remember.

Next Tuesday, three o'clock, he'd find out if memory was enough to keep what they had alive or if, like those Impressionist paintings she loved, they'd just caught a moment in negative space that couldn't last.