Free Two Americans in Paris by Julia Ritt

foreleg against the azure sky, the elephant raises his trunk above his head, and the stout rhinoceros stands with his head held proudly. Upon seeing me you grin. Your eyes, lightened to the color of dark, golden honey in the sunlight, are affixed on me, gleaming with what I assume are lustful thoughts. The strength of your gaze fills me with a powerful sense that our relations have taken on a distinct and irrevocable sexual charge. I say, “Hey” and smile back. The message I sent to you has had the effect I desired. In your eyes, I am no longer only a friend with whom you may discuss intellectual topics, but also someone with whom you may enjoy more sensuous activities.
    One student asks, to no one in particular, “Does Professor have his Ph.D. yet?” As a class, we don’t actually call Professor a professor. We call him by his first name since he’s hip and young like us—I just think of him as Professor because he’s a brilliant teacher.
    “Almost. He defends sometime next spring, I think,” I say. As soon as I’ve responded the other students are curious and continue to ask questions.
    “Where does he go?” another student asks.
    “CUNY. The City University of New York,” I say.
    “How old is he?” another student asks.
    “Thirty-three,” I say.
    Amazed looks appear on my classmates’ faces. “Really? No, he can’t be more than in his twenties! I thought he was barely older than us,” they say.
    I grin, pleased to have the inside scoop on our teacher. “Nope, he’s thirty-three.”
    Professor arrives and we follow him into the interior of the museum. The ceiling is coffered with beautifully carved white stone and the gilded late nineteenth-century clock preserved from the Gare d’Orsay serves as the main hall’s centerpiece. Along the center aisle runs a winding path of statues: some white, others bronze, each pensive on a bench, gracefully arched, or supine and nude.
    Professor stops in a room displaying Courbet’s work and establishes him as the first avant-garde artist—a revolutionary painter who jumped out of the classical codes by painting Burial at Ornans . “It’s a giant painting about nothing,” Professor says. “It’s too big for its subject. It’s as big as a history painting but doesn’t portray a historical story. There’s no moral—it’s just stuff happening. People are gathered for a funeral. The priests are drunk.” Professor points out their red cheeks. “Everyone is disconnected.” At hearing the word “disconnected,” I look over at you. We live in a world where it is increasingly difficult to form meaningful bonds with other people, but already I feel intrinsically linked to you, despite having known you only a few weeks.
    Professor finishes his lecture about Courbet with The Artist’s Studio (A Real Allegory) and then takes us past the Manet paintings without saying a word, even though I know Manet is one of his favorite artists. He stops in front of Cabanel’s Naissance de Vénus . Venus’ sinuous body is splayed across a smooth rock, her long torso thrust forward, her thighs rubbing together lustfdully. She appears perfectly relaxed, on view for our pleasure. Her porcelain skin glows softly and her eyes are only half-open as if she is in a sensuous daze. The tips of her long red curls are dipped into the ocean whose tiny waves lap around her. Putti arranged like a line of musical notes flutter above her, creating a pleasing Baroque rhythm.
    Cabanel’s Vénus is the sort of artwork I aspire to create someday—unabashedly beautiful, naughty, and clearly inspired by a muse. As though my subconscious is already attuned to your fate of becoming my muse, my gaze flits to you. You ignite my emotions just by your sheer presence and I am overwhelmed with the beauty I find in your every aspect. I could write endlessly about my fantasy of you that permeates every corner of my mind. Even in front of such a gorgeous artwork, the pale, golden freckles across your