“I’m the artist, and you’re my muse,” said John serenely, as if it meant something.

“C’mon, man.” I sighed, slamming my eyes shut for a moment. “You’ve said that to thousands of girls.”

“But I mean it!” He looked over at me, his eyes warming. “I love you, Alice.”

I shook my head. “You‘ve loved every chick who’s dropped acid with you. You’ve loved every hooker who you’ve overpaid. You’ve loved everyone who’s been dumb enough to pay attention to you.”

“That isn’t true at all. Maybe it was, in the moment when I thought I loved them, once. But you, I _love_ you!” He picked up his paintbrush, making light strokes of my latest abstract surrealist porno picture.

“You’re a fucking lunatic.” I leaned my head back against the chaise lounge, my long black hair falling over my shoulders.

“Stay still,” John murmured, turning his focus to the canvas. “I’m nearly done.”

“Thank God!” Another abstract painting of me, half-naked, with tabs of acid as the background and windows in all the wrong places. John said it was all about these big artistic words that I didn’t understand.

“You’re stunning,” John told me sincerely. “You’re so absolutely stunning.”

“You can’t tell in any of them paintings. I’m all distorted and alien-lookin’. You could be painting Obama or Jim Morrison, and no one could tell the goddamn difference!”

“You don’t look like Obama or Jim Morrison.” John cast me a confused glance. “You look like a pyschdelic Aphrodite.”

“And that’s just who I am!” I threw back my head and laughed. “Psychedelic Aphrodite, ain’t I something special!”