BOHEMIAN

I knew Krista between 1998 and 2000, when the economy was actually booming, but living costs were still pretty cheap. Somehow, she had enough money to buy a small piece of land, with an ramshackle house, a collapsing barn, and an old apple orchard. I'd never seen anywhere prettier.

She had a bohemian style that I found totally sexy. She'd often wear old white nightgowns or patchwork sundresses. Sometimes she'd wear only overalls and be naked underneath. She had large, natural breasts, that were lovely to look at, lovely to watch. And often, I'd notice that she'd go a week or two without shaving, and be sprouting stubble under her arms and shins. She had dark hair and chocolate eyes. She claimed to be part Mexican.

Krista and I never dated. I thought about it often, and knew she must be passionate in her love making as in her art. She made books that she printed herself, and even hand-bound. She made sculpture, and made jewelry. Everything was creative for her, and always a little crazy.

Still,I noticed each time she sat cross-legged and was so absorbed in her bead-work that she didn't realize I could see up her sundress to her patch of dark curls. She never wore underwear. Maybe she didn't even own a pair. Or maybe she didn't care. She was a free spirit. I always noticed each time she bent over to pick up a crate of apples, how her overalls would dip, allowing a glimpse of cleavage. I always wondered if she had large sand-dollar areolas, or small, pinched nipples.

Then, one day, she said she needed a photograph of herself, and asked if I'd help. Sure, I said. She rummaged around her pile of art supplies until she pulled out some paints. Setting them down, she unbuckled her overalls and let them drop to the floor. Within a second, she was standing beside me, stark naked, completely unselfconscious, and without saying a word. She took a brush and some paint and motioned for me to do the same. She wanted to make a birthday card for her friend, and she was going to be the card herself.

I felt totally nervous being so close to her nude body, but I loved it. I loved being able to look at it like an artist draws a life model. Every curve, every line.

When we were done, we walked outside. She handed me the camera. "What do you think?" she asked. She stood beside some flowers, the apple trees in the back.

"Beautiful," I said. I meant it.