Davin
I’d told myself the sessions would stay exactly an hour.
An hour was reasonable. It was professional, and it also felt like there would be enough distance between us, enough that I could still call this arrangement what it was supposed to be—an artist and his subject, nothing more complicated than that.
We were forty minutes past the hour now, and I hadn’t said a word to her about ending it—or about anything else, for that matter.
Jasmine stood under the lights, restless as she shifted her weight onto one hip and then the other every few minutes. Her attention was fixed somewhere past my shoulder, the way it always was when she got tired of holding still.
I should have ended the session a long time ago. But instead, I reached for a fresh sheet of paper and told myself I just nee
