chapter one
Reasons for Leaving

Evelyn
I adjust the mirror to the side of the easel so I can see my naked back reflected in the one behind me. When I get the angles just right, I try to see myself objectively and fail do so, as usual. I can't ignore the roll of pudge around my middle. At the same time, I admire the muscle definition in my shoulders -- a testament to being able to do fifty straight-leg push-ups before my arms start to shake. I can't help but smile.

I pick up my Gauloises Blonde cigarette and take a puff, smoking being one of the few nasty habits I've picked up after almost a year living and re-creating myself in Paris. I tap the ashes into the chipped teacup I found on my first excursion to the Porte de Clignancourt flea market so many months ago. When I'm ready, I shift a little so my spine curves to the right and the subtle shadows of my rib cage press against my skin. I can see the back of my head with my long dark hair in a messy bun held in place with a pair of small ivory knitting needles I found in Prague, my naked back, shoulders, and a healthy portion of rump, but not my face.

With the lit cigarette between the fingers of my right hand, I pick up the brush with my left and start painting.

Alexander
My mouth feels dry. I'm having a little trouble swallowing, but my heart rate is steady. I could be at home watching TV and thirsty, but too lazy to get up and grab a beer, not about to make one of the most important purchases of my life. I try to work some spit into my mouth. The only thing that'll help is getting this over with. It's moments like these when I realize nothing in life has taught me one useful thing about being a man -- not my parents, all the