The studio was precisely furnished. Painstakingly, but pleasurably. She entered, and as a small and curly dog ran toward the door, crying in glee, she saw that the room ended just twenty feet from her feet; the curly dog squealed and there was nowhere to go; she closed the door and sat on the doormat. 

​

“Come in,” Jake said as the dog cried. 

​

She was in. She smiled. Jake gestured toward a chair four feet from the doormat. She didn’t move but asked, “Why does it sound like a dressing room in here?”

​

“A dressing room?

 

“The music.”

 

“It’s Henry Mancini.”

 

“You’re trying to impress me.”

 

“I’m trying to have a nice time.”

 

“So you’re trying to seduce me.” The dog tired of its excitement and returned to a small bed beside Jake’s larger bed, which splayed three feet from the chair he offered her. His bedding was meticulous, a white coverlet tucked tight at the edges. She stood.

 

“I’m not taking off my clothes.” 

 

“Dressing rooms are for trying things on.” 

 

“Dressing rooms are for feeling bad about yourself.” 

 

“But my lighting is nice.”

 

She looked around again and found what he said to be true. If she undressed in this light, she might feel very good about herself. 

 

“I’m glad you came,” he said. 

 

Did she want to feel good? She stepped off the doormat and Jake hugged her, then passed a glass from the narrow counter. The wine bubbled in her mouth. She could still smell Jake’s cologne, as if it had pressed right into the fabric of her shirt. 

 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.” 

 

Three dark windows took up the wall at the far end of the studio. The far end which was a near end. A horn section rose from the speakers and she slipped off her shoes, registering the little table near the foot of the bed, set with two bowls and napkins and silverware.

​

“You made me dinner.”

​

“It’s for the person coming after you.” 

​

“Jake.” 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“You should be.”

 

“I’m not trying to hurt you.”

 

“Aren’t you?”

 

“Is that what you want?”

 

It was a good question. She crossed the room and looked out the windows. Her gaze was cut short by a brick wall. She had to tend to what was inside. The dark glass reflected the studio behind her and she saw Jake stirring what smelled like pasta sauce on the stove. I took two buses to get here, she thought: two buses, and I stood beneath the honeylocust tree, its thin leaves flashing orange. Daylight savings had ended just the night before and the city was under the thumb of early darkness. She waited for the second bus in the dark blue of the too-soon evening and felt a thrill. 

​

“How was your day?” she asked. A peace offering. 

 

Jake had cleaned for several hours then took Pavlov for a long walk. At the park, a boy holding the hand of his father pointed at Pavlov with authority. 

 

“If it’s little, it’s cute,” the boy said. The father’s eyes followed the leash leading from the little dog up to Jake’s face and he frowned. 

 

“Oh, fine,” Jake answered, walking toward her with a spoon. “Does this need salt?”

 

Jake and Madeline had met that summer in the social parity of an artist residency; all the living quarters were the same, all the meals were shared. Madeline was more famous than Jake, but began coming to Jake’s cabin frequently. She never let him in hers. 

 

“Paintings in progress. No one can see them,” she’d say. As a largely unread writer, he couldn’t argue. Her residency ended before his and when she was gone, Jake wandered around her cleaned-out cabin. The room smelled of her and paint stained the floor in one corner. He was supposed to contact her when he returned to the city. After two months, he finally had.

 

Madeline turned away from the windows and looked at the doormat across the room.

 

“My apartment is so much bigger than yours.”

 

“Then invite me to yours next time.”

 

The spoon Jake held was convex with sauce. She opened her mouth. 

​

​

Milo Wippermann is the author of Joan of Arkansas, which was a finalist for a 2024 Lambda Award in LGBTQ+ Drama. In 2023, he won a Whiting Award in poetry and drama. Wippermann is an editor and letterpress printer at Ugly Duckling Presse, holds an MFA from Brown University, and lives in Lenapehoking, Brooklyn, NY. His first novel, The Sibling, is forthcoming from Random House in 2028.