“What are you drawing?” I ask her. She freezes, then slaps her hand over the paper napkin. It crumples inside her grip as she drags it off the table and shoves it in her dress pocket. “No need to stop on my account.” A splash of color hits her cheeks as she avoids my eyes. “That’s all right. My drawing isn’t fit for public consumption.” “How so?” She hesitates a beat, then meets my eyes defiantly. “I’m an erotic artist.” “A what?”
