Yours to Bare

“I like you shy. And not shy.” He drops a smooth, lingering kiss on my lips. “And everything else you are or are not.”

“It’s supposed to help your craft, right?” She half-laughs. “Heartache . . . longing.”

I look forward. A stoplight changes from red to green. A man steps off the curb, narrowly avoids getting hit by a taxi, and darts through traffic anyway. Are any of us really awake? Are we making decisions about our lives, or just letting things happen to us? Is that why we like art, why Halston needs it, because without it, we’d never feel anything out of the ordinary?