JBC was an attractive, 34-year old male photographer I worked for almost two years ago. This experience marked the absolute last time I posed for any sort of artist, photographer, or MWC (man with camera).

Last week, we ran into each other for the first time since the photoshoot, at a vague casting for multi-media artists. His sample of work happened to be a photo of me, Photoshopped into what looked like an abstract two-headed fish.

“I literally just worked on this photo for the first time last night,” he said. “I never did anything else with those photos.”

“Well, it’s no coincidence you see me, then.”

JBC then revealed that, on the way to the venue, he’d had déjà vu and felt like he was going to be killed. On the way there, I’d also felt strange and had the psychic vibe that this project was probably bullshit. It was. It was highly disorganized. My sole universal purpose of going there, was to have the never-received closure with JBC.

Before I’d even shown up to work for JBC, we became friends on Facebook, where a slew of response-addicted messages were exchanged. While most of the artists and photographers I had worked for were older, married, taken, or toad-like, sad-sack pervs, this man was a seemingly eligible bachelor, as Facebook confirmed, and I was slightly nervous going into the gig.

I have no idea how to explain what happened in JBC’s studio when I showed up to work there what now seems an eternity ago, except to say that I did not leave until 2 PM the next day. It was all out of context. Maybe in a fictionalized myth, we’d be together for at least a some time thereafter, but JBC made it quite clear through his disappearance that we weren’t seeing each other again.

The whole thing was a mistake, I told myself. It was the quintessential artist/muse collaboration-consummation that made me take a hard look at what I was doing.

In the meantime, Facebook had some surprises for me. During the two months after our encounter, my Newsfeed notified me that he had become engaged, married, and then, shortly thereafter, that he was going to be a Daddy. His wife was a woman looked like me. I became annoyed at the mind of Man. Was I his last screw-around before tying the knot? How does someone get engaged that quickly? Was he with her the whole time? I dealt with it by Defriending.

At the time, I felt incredibly shitty about myself. But last week, when JBC and I reunited over a glass of wine, I realized that we had some sort of contract. Interesting and big things had transpired for both of us, perhaps, as a result of our original encounter: I quit nude modeling, and he got married and had a kid.

JBC said he thought I defriended him because I hated him. Even after that, JBC tried to refriend me, and I did not accept his request.

“Nah, I don’t hate you. How’s daddy-ing?”

“Being a daddy is exhausting! My wife knows how to push my buttons.”

I guess that’s why he married her. I meant to ask him if I was indeed his last screw-around before tying the knot, but, dangit, I forgot, of course. It is none of my business. There is always some fine print left out of a contract, after all.