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"Well, that's me," I said with a grin.

"To my artistic eye, at least." he remarked with a smirk.

"Where do I go?" I asked, not hiding my annoyance. He seemed to have a talent for hitting nerves, like some clumsy dentist.

"Oh. Just sit over here," he said, marking a small rise in the beach. "and gaze out at the ocean."

I sat, and he studied me a moment.

"May I?" he asked, coming over and putting his hands on my shoulders.

"Yes, of course."

He turned me slightly, and then he put his hands under my hair and spread the strands as he wished. He stepped back, contemplated me, and moved to my legs and smoothed out the skirt,

"Are you comfortable enough?" he asked.

"For now. I don't think I can sit here like this and not move for two hours." I warned.

"I'm not expecting you to remain like that for two straight hours. You can take frequent breaks." he said, and hurried back to his easel as if he were afraid I might jump up and run off and he would lose the moment. He worked with frenzied, quick motions, feasting on my image, digesting it and reproducing what he saw inside himself.

"I'm sorry if I frightened you last night," he said, about ten minutes after he had begun.

I started to turn toward him.

"Oh, please, hold the pose for as long as you can."

"Right. I'm sorry you have trouble sleeping. Whenever that happens to me. I hate it I wake up cranky and angry at myself for worrying too much or eating the wrong things, whatever."

"Yes," he said. but I suppose people would say I wake up cranky and angry regardless of how I sleep."

"No. Really?" I teased. "I wonder why they would have such a thought."

"Very funny." He relaxed his shoulders. "I am what I am," he said with a shrug.

"Is it like that for you every night?"

"Just about." he said. He paused. "I'd rather you didn't talk about our little encounter. People will only tell you it's a symptom of inherited madness, especially the Eatons."

"If that were true about insomnia, there would be quite a few people suffering from mental illness out there."

"Who says there aren't?" he shot back, "If you get thirsty, I have some cold lemonade in my bag there," he said, nodding toward a white cooler.

"Okay, thank you."

We were both quiet for a while. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him work. He seemed possessed by it, intense. determined. The effort made the veins in his neck stand out and the veins in his temples as well. He bit down on his lower lip so hard at times I thought he would surely draw blood.

"This is a very beautiful place to work." I said.

"I don't always work here. Sometimes I take my sailboat and go to a bay nearby where I can enjoy even more solitude. I'm often interrupted by the noise from the house or even some of the Eatons' guests wandering over to see what the mad artist is up to."

"You like being alone?" I asked.

He shot me a look as if I had asked the dumbest question.

"Often. I like being alone," I continued. "but I do enjoy being around people. too. Too much introversion isn't good, but not ever wanting or being able to be alone isn't good, either. It is like being afraid of the voices inside you that will become vocal if there is nothing else to distract or diffuse them."

"You sound like a psychology major. Is that what you are?"