Evelyn stared across the room at Michael Jay. Michael Jay was new. She’d watched his installation the other night. 

 

Evelyn was nearly always chilly. She resented her Creator for leaving her half-clothed. Would it have cost him so very much to give her a shirt to go with her puffy green skirt? And green—such an unbecoming colour. Her linen canvas was rectangular and vertical, revealing her from head to toe, the voluminous skirt drawing the eye away from her exposed chest and nipples so pointy as to defy biology. They were a source of embarrassment for Evelyn, but nothing could be done, short of her Creator taking pity on her and adding a top of some kind. 

 

More than once her Creator had stood before her with one or two admirers, he ad-libbing his inspiration for this piece (a different anecdote each time), they hanging on his every word, gazing at him with puppy-dog eyes as if he were the next Picasso or something.

 

(Evelyn supposed she was biased against him; she hadn’t asked to be brought into existence, so much oil in so many colours, the long, quiet hours after the art gallery closed each evening enough to drive anyone mad, and the perpetual chill in the air didn’t help things. She’d have given anything to be able to cover herself, even for a little while.)

 

Evelyn had the impression she was in a side room off the main thoroughfare; some days, especially on weekends, she could hear echoes to her right from what sounded like a much larger space than her own: intermittent laughter, the occasional cart rattling by, a child or two shrieking or bursting into tears. Happy or sad, their noise grated, set her teeth on edge. All she could do was wait for their parents to appease them or remove them from the gallery.

 

In her room, time seemed to stand still. Once the gallery closed and the dozen or so works of art were left to their own devices, the lights were lowered and a hush fell over everything. She enjoyed the half-light best, when the other paintings took on shadows like cloaks and it felt like only they existed in the world until the next morning when the registrar made his first rounds and the lights returned to full brightness, making her squint before her eyes adjusted.

 

Michael Jay in April in Shirt-Sleeves had appeared two nights ago on the wall opposite. The first thing Evelyn noticed about Michael Jay was his pure white shirt. It radiated like a beacon in the dimness, raised goosebumps on her arms and shoulders. It looked comfortable, well-fitted. Warm. 

 

Then the yellow blotches of acrylic—daffodils? tulips?—surrounding him on all sides. The spring. The bright yellow against the white shirt filled the eye with a balmy glow.

 

His first night in her room, they’d stared silently at each other, sizing each other up, until the two ugly hags to his left—Pretty Women, their Creator called them unironically—began chatting with him, asking his name and where he came from. The Pretty Women had no shirts Evelyn could request: each wore a blue dress in broad, uneven strokes. She could hardly have asked them to go naked just for her own comfort. In fact, chances were they couldn’t remove their dresses if they’d wanted to: their skin overlapped their clothes in uneven lines, as if their Creator had painted the dresses first and added the women as an afterthought.

 

Evelyn also couldn’t blame them for fawning over Michael Jay; he was definitely striking with his light blonde hair combed forward in an attempt to hide his growing forehead, pallid complexion and piercing blue eyes. Those eyes made her uncomfortable as he continued to stare at her while responding to the Pretty Women’s questions. She couldn’t help but study his beautiful white shirt. His arms were crossed over his midriff, and the frame cut him off just below the waist. All she could see of his pants were a stripe of black.

 

The public seemed smitten with Michael Jay as well, especially the younger ones. Evelyn had been here awhile and didn’t get as much attention as she’d used to. Michael Jay was new, young, handsome. And he had that lovely shirt set off by the dazzling flowers. He looked like a dynamic professor of modern art or similar. Perhaps these young viewers hoped to someday have a professor as good-looking at Michael Jay. 

 

Fat chance.

 

“I like your shirt,” Evelyn called across the room. A week had now passed since Michael Jay’s arrival. She finally got up the nerve to ask for what she wanted, but she didn’t want to be direct. The gallery had been peaceful in her favourite half-light for hours; now was as good a time as any.

 

Michael Jay looked down at his crossed arms, relaxed them. “Thanks,” he said. He gave his arms a little shake. The Pretty Women watched, glaring at Evelyn and watching Michael Jay in turns. “Evelyn,” he added after glancing at the label adhered to the wall beneath her. As if he had somehow not noticed her name until this night.

 

Evelyn smiled her best smile, quickly surveyed the room, then shivered. “Oh, it’s freezing,” she said. She clutched her arms over her chest, pushing her breasts up and out. Her super-erect nipples poked off the canvas in his direction. The Pretty Women pulled a face as one: a look of disgust. Michael Jay’s cheeks turned pink, pretty rose circles that enhanced the blue of his eyes. Evelyn hadn’t meant to embarrass him, but that’s how he seemed to react. Too late she realized she may have been barking up the wrong tree. In an effort to recover from her mistake, she softened her pose and tried to look more… pathetic. Done in by her Creator who refused to properly clothe her, poor woman.

 

Whatever would get her what she wanted.

 

Evelyn scanned his shirt, trying to make it obvious how much she coveted it. Michael Jay looked away, busied himself with studying his nails. Disappointed, Evelyn dropped her arms and sighed. Another cold night.

 

She tried for three nights in a row, each time garnering glares from the Pretty Women, each time pantomiming her chill. If only she had some kind of prop, a vase or an apple or something she could barter with. But her Creator had given her nothing but a bland brown background. 

 

Finally, during her fourth attempt, Michael Jay gave in. “I can’t take this,” he mumbled. Much to the Pretty Women’s horror—and titillation—he unbuttoned his shirt. The Pretty Women gawked. There was certainly nothing special about his body, but seeing some male skin made for a refreshing change. Evelyn raised an eyebrow at his pale chest, little peach nipples (oh, to have normal-sized nipples!), sparse brush of light brown hair encircling each.

 

Michael Jay handed his shirt to the Pretty Women. They clutched it together, brought it to their noses and inhaled. Michael Jay grimaced. Finally they passed it on to the Sneakers, who kicked it over to Sleeping Cats. Three grey kittens had a short but intense fight over it before Acid Fisherman, the largest painting in the room, reached over and snatched it from them. Around the room it went until finally Evelyn held in her hands her coveted prize. She gave it a quick sniff—all she could smell was acrylic paint—then pushed her arms through the sleeves. Oh, warmth! A sensation she hadn’t felt since her days in the Creator’s stuffy studio so long ago. Tears sprung to her eyes. She gazed across at Michael Jay, thanked him profusely. He blushed again, looked down and around, but he had a smile on his face.

 

Evelyn stood proudly the next morning, covered shoulders thrust back, hands hidden by shirt cuffs, gazing with confidence from the canvas. Michael Jay stood topless across from her, arms crossed once again, yellow flowers as bright and inviting as ever. Evelyn kept her pose as the registrar walked into the room on his morning rounds and couldn’t help but notice the switch. The registrar froze bug-eyed before Evelyn, whipped his head back and forth between her and Michael Jay, then emitted a high-pitched squeal before slumping to the floor in a faint.

 

“Like he’s never seen a white shirt before,” grumbled Acid Fisherman.