Each Thursday, she wraps herself in knee-high socks, tall boots, and a heavy, white coat. Nothing else. Each large button on the coat is like a perfect antique coin that she traces, wanting to imprint its value on her fingertips. Then, the satin lining a secret next to her body, she takes the bus to an industrial district, where he is waiting to paint.

He always aligns his paints by the visible spectrum, from red to violet. She comes to him colorless, clean, in a white coat. He knows each shadow of her body, each gleaming highlight; he thinks of her body by regions. The desperate, hungry stripes between her ribs; the indigo calm of her lower back; the shy pink under her knees. He paints a city across her. Angry red bridges, orange nipples, silent white lips.

She says nothing because she is being mapped, organized, and her own thoughts would interrupt with their squiggles of chaos.

All Thursday, every Thursday, she stands for hours, following the patterns of herself. And all Thursday he paints, marveling over an entire metropolis of skin. All night she studies the mirror, the beautiful order of shapes, until her eyes are too exhausted to open.

Every Friday morning she washes herself back into disparate parts, fastens up her coat and boots, and walks out—completely unmarked—into a crowd.