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family. Ed grew up on a houseboat in Marin with his two sisters, two brothers, artist mother and carpenter father. His father had died five years ago; Ed took his mother out every Sunday for dinner, wrote poetry for love, and made money by taking carpentry and modeling jobs.
    “Remodeling?” I shouted over the music.
    He shook his head, dark eyes dancing beneath the thick brows. “Modeling.”
    “You mean for magazines? Department stores?”
    He shook his head again. “Artist’s model.” He struck a manly pose: Atlas on one knee, holding up the world.
    “Oh, no!” I laughed.
    “No? Well, how about this, then?” Michelangelo’s David was next.
    It was easy to imagine these poses in their unclothed entirety. I held the cold beer to my forehead. “Where do you model?”
    Two art schools used him on a regular basis, Ed told me. Occasionally he did private sittings as well.
    “But doesn’t your construction work interfere? What if you bash your thumb with a hammer or take a two-by-four to the forehead? Do they still want to draw you when you’re all bruised and splintery?”
    Ed grinned, teeth flashing beneath his mustache. Seeing Ed smile was like unwrapping a turkey sandwich when you’re hungry: its appeal was its simplicity. “You bet. The more bruises, bumps, tools, and dust I bring to my modeling jobs, the more they love me,” he said.
    The imagery was taking me by storm. I closed my eyes and felt Ed’s breath on my face as he leaned close to kiss me. I let him, and it was better than just all right.
    Karin chose to appear at that instant. “Oh good. I’m glad to see that you’re hooking up.” She patted my back pocket meaningfully, to remind me of the condoms she’d put there earlier, hard-rimmed tokens of good luck. A look of confusion crossed her face when she felt the Frisbee instead.
    “I’m about to invite Jordan to my house, if you don’t mind the guest of honor leaving early,” Ed said.
    “Mind?” Karin rubbed her hands gleefully. “Not a bit. As long as you both PROMISE not to do anything I wouldn’t.”
    Ed shrugged. “That should be an easy promise to keep. What do you say, Jordan?”
    What could I say, but yes? Here was my golden opportunity to act impulsively for a change, instead of planning my next move. That’s why I had come to San Francisco after all.

     
    Ed drove a filthy Saab with a muffler problem that prohibited all conversation. His apartment was just south of Market and flaunted the same inattention to detail as his car. A couple of webbed lounge chairs stood on either side of the fireplace, a battered chunk of redwood served as a coffee table, the bookshelves were swaybacked wooden planks separated by cinder blocks, and a pair of ancient snowshoes hung on the wall.
    “My father’s snowshoes,” Ed said, as reverently as if he were presenting a cremation urn.
    In the kitchen, I began to doubt my own intentions as the beer wore off and reality set in. Was I ready for this? There had been a few other men before Peter. (I could still count my lovers on one hand, something that Karin found hilarious.) To varying degrees, I’d been in love with each one. But Peter was the only man who had ever seen the scar on my breast. I thought I’d keep my top on tonight, avoid the issue entirely, then remembered I was wearing a body suit beneath Karin’s leather pants. I’d have to convince Ed to turn off the lights if we got that far.
    Stalling for time, I asked Ed to put a kettle on for tea. He lit the stove and plopped a couple of herbal tea bags into a pair of oversized pottery mugs. Tan linoleum curled beneath my boots and the speckled Formica table teetered on the crooked floor, its surface not quite leveled by a wad of newspaper. I could only hope that Ed’s carpentry skills, like Karin’s talents as an OR nurse, weren’t represented by what I saw in their apartments.
    I sat down. The leather pants cut grooves into my thighs. My earrings, silver hardware also borrowed