There are three people in the room. The mustachioed man on the right shades his eyes beneath an ocher hat. A cigar sits assertively between his middle and index fingers, emitting a plume of smoke that seeps across the scene like the beam of a flashlight, its haze illuminating the nude woman reclining in the pool outside. A second man occupies the left side of the space, his legs crossed and his gaze turned toward the window. A glass of pink champagne rests in his right hand, pinkie erect in a gesture at once vaguely pretentious and potentially perverse. Someone has placed a hand on his shoulder, red-painted fingernails peering down at his digit’s penile provocation. Perhaps a proclamation of interest, or a warning to look away. His sight line catches a second woman standing in the water, her reddish skin echoing the bright hue of the rose inside. It is unclear whether these women
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