For a long time, I used to wake up early. I attempted to slide off the edge of the bed. My movements stirred Rhea to the brink of waking. Before she sidled closer into a snuggling space, I slipped from under the queen-sized doona. Standing, I watched her puffing and hugging the spare pillow. Alone, she peeled aside. If I returned, she reversed and cosied in a snooze on my shoulder.

When my restlessness disturbed her, Rhea said, "It's still dark. Sleep longer, my love."

Ignoring her advice, I made a strong coffee and started writing. Recollections, close and distant, flooded my mind, endless as a surge of ocean waves.

Recall carried me to college in suburban Melbourne — the last winter days in 1974. I was a member of a friendship pack — a group celebrating a recent eighteenth birthday. The golden girl, Coral, my bestie, was our social circle's leader, yet youngest by a month. She called us 'her troupe.' Josh and Coral, a pair, her girlfriend Ruby and me. We entertained and hung together, even performing as high school actors in A Midsummer Night's Dream.

I studied an art print for an assignment at a regular corner table in the library. Before I scanned for Coral's help, she appeared on cue.

"What are you looking at, you perv?"

Her quip implied in a kidding way, leaning across the study desk. Stray strands of her kinky, poppy-hued locks rested on my shoulder. The waft of roasted pistachios followed. The perfume's fragrance drew my attention to her favourite green body-con dress.

"Help, please," framing a request for insights into interpreting Klimt's The Kiss.

Coral picked up the open book. I discerned her appreciation of the colour reproduction of the famous composition. Her fingernail traced the figures.

Still, she teased, "As if you have experience."

I ribbed a response.

"Okay, expert, who pashes better? Ruby or Josh?"

"Nice try, Luke"as she trailed a grin.

Coral added a finger wave, "Are you practising in the mirror for the lass you ambushed at the beach."

She hesitated, then added, "Penny?"

Her name selection pricked like a jellyfish—actually, a double sting because Jenny's name evaded her. Plus, my buddy reminded me of my botched effort with the raven-haired teenager — dumb staring instead of speaking to a pretty girl.

Coral scanned the art book.

I redirected the conversation, "See, the model's toes curl."

The detail is in the masterpiece.

"Toes can curl when you kiss. Klimt integrated this into his painting."

"Ah," marvelled Coral, "The holy grail of lovers — the flawless pash."

My bestie's wet lips spread a sheen of sweat on my forehead.

We perused The Kiss, absorbing the couple's passionate embrace.

Coral mused, "A lush work. Klimt masters blending shapes, rich ovarian swirls and phallic forms."

Golden angel hair, a jade dress and matching eyes distracted me from the art print.

My fancies led to clumsy flirting.

"Klimt's gentler than your assignment choice—Schiele — his raw sexuality."

Coral screwed her nose.

"Correct, but he sketched what he saw."

Still, she pinched her lips.

My bestie's presentation and actions flowed, as a rule, with impeccable choreography. A genial and elegant young woman, unless exasperated or flustered.

"So, are you saying it's okay to be a voyeur as an artist, not a mere male?"

"Geez, sunshine. Don't use art to escape the beach scamp tag!"

Coral shut the book.

"Hang on! Art is complex, Goldilocks! The artist's message and the viewer's interpretation."

A tad riled, I used a childhood nickname because she prickled my annoyance with myself. Even though my recklessness beside Jenny in the sea occurred months ago in summer, the contact soaked my heart.

Coral steepled her palms.

"Artists get away with more. Not boys at the beach chasing girls!"

Letting the second half of her response pass, I re-focused on the assignment.

"We connect to iconic artworks. The image engages our memories and feelings. For example, The Kiss; is basic foreplay for lovers."

"Hold on, Mr Inexperienced!"

Her fingers caressed her bouncy curls.

"Memory spins differently for everyone. I might recall my first butterfly kiss on the jetty, not a sloppy tongue massage."

For a moment, I considered a lack of seriousness; then I realised her Josh-centred frame of reference. Still, I wondered about other Coral kisses.

"Did the pixie kiss the angel?"

Coral and Ruby aroused my curiosity because my bestie teetered with the brunette's increasing forwardness. I pictured the girl's intimacy, my fingernail-biting worry. I imagined an expanding gap looming between my forever friend and me.

She ignored the probe, selecting a reference volume off the table and leafed pages.

Prompting her attention to art again, I showed her a black-and-white photograph — an image of Klimt's studio after his death. His sanctum contained an unfinished painting, The Bride. Proof (at least for this artist) of the rumour behind the dirty old master technique. The in-progress canvas depicted a woman, revealing a defining, bushy mound of pubic hair. The respected approach of art avoids the pubes. Yet, the incomplete artwork shows a nude model, de facto.

"Ah, a virile old man exposed!"

The painting attracted her eyes to the pubic region, where they lingered like mine.

She played me.

"Like errant Luke."

At the beach in January, I clumsily closed into Jenny's space.

I flapped my hands.

"Or your dad's blue movie stash."

A flawed reply, disconnected from the assignment and the raven-haired girl.

Raising her eyebrows, Coral said, "Well, if you're going there, you don't fathom relationships. Yet, you are certain of yourself with Porn, an instant sex expert."

Helping to retrieve my focus in the library — I heeded a study maxim.

When a youngster, my mother said, 'Don't step off the curb.'

The phrase endured as a guiding principle. I prompted my concentration back to Klimt.

"Does it change how we perceive his artwork? He probably did the same under other finished canvases. Perhaps, The Kiss."

"Well, of course," stressed Coral.

Next, she gave a full voice to her opinions.

"There's an enormous difference between images, clothed or nude. We'd never look at anyone we saw disrobed the way we see everyone else we know."

"Thanks, gorgeous," I glanced at her before I penned a note.

Coral, undressed, remained a pure dream. I pictured her toned thighs in her netball uniform. This girl nailed her landings and pivots because she practised ad infinitum.

"A final sketch. Please!"

I enjoyed watching her unique insight into artworks. I thumbed the paper tabs I used until I found a sketch—a small yet startling image. The drawing depicts Klimt, his face on his genitals, and the hanging scrotum is his body. The slack head of the penis exhibits his features. Tongue in cheek or genuine, who knows? Except for Klimt, the artist defined himself as genitalia.

"Wow," wide-eyed like Goldilocks' surprise on waking and seeing the bears.

She lifted the book, intent on a closer inspection, "thought-provoking."

After her mull, "You wouldn't dismiss it as a joke? Or poor taste, or ignore the sketch as straightforward, dirty-minded doodling?"

"Gosh no," and she held her scrutiny.

I pondered if my balls would ever receive that much attention.

With conviction, she expressed her opinion.

"He's defining himself. The sexual being he grapples to understand through his art. It's a candid self-portrait."

Coral held the book spread, a fixed gaze. I sensed photographing the image in her memory.

In my desire to share her moment, I disclosed an unguarded deliberation.

"Would we do the same ourselves? Could we draw or let someone with intimate knowledge draw us as our own, er — um — privates?"

After releasing my notion, I doodled on my notepad, my head buried.

"Geez, we're hardwired to view between the legs."

Coral balanced the book, contemplating the image.

Twisting her hair, she launched, "Faces are preference. The eye of the beholder stuff—so is body shape. The sex bits attract. They insist on attention."

With another finger wag, "I don't think I'd like to see you drawn as your member, cut or uncut. No telling me, okay?"

Then she struggled for words, a rare instance in a forthcoming Coral, until she said, "Hmm, back to Klimt - a provocative statement if he had used this image to sign his canvases."

"Perhaps our shared privates are our true, unrealised signature?"

My slant surprised us both.

As my back straightened, Coral's eyes darted, focused-unfocused, constructing a reply.

I wondered what her response might entail, except Ruby breezed into the library.