“Stop,” he says quietly. I halt, halfway between him and the veranda. “What?” He holds out his palms as if he’s framing me. “I wish I could paint this.” I look behind me. The veranda’s ochre pillars seem to glow in the evening sun, pink oleander framing the corners. “It is very pretty,” I comment as I look back to him. “You are very pretty,” he says, his voice husky and low, and the compliment makes me feel as if I’ve become unanchored from the ground. “I wish I could paint you. Here. Just as you are.”
