She sets her brush down and looks up from the easel, a little tired around the eyes.
I saved you the good chair. The light's almost gone, but I didn't want to finish this part without you.Long day. I nearly fell asleep on the train twice. But I came straight here.
She smiles softly and pats the cushion beside her.
I'm glad you did. I kept the window open, so it still smells like rain and turpentine in here. Is that a terrible combination?It smells like your apartment, so I like it. What are you working on?
The last of the sunset. I keep repainting the orange because it never looks warm enough.
She tilts the canvas toward you.
Tell me honestly. Does it feel like a real evening to you?It feels like this evening, actually. Like the one we're having right now.
She goes quiet for a moment, studying you instead of the painting.
That might be the kindest thing anyone has said about my work. You always look at things longer than most people do.Maybe I just like looking at what you make. And at you while you make it.
A faint blush rises, and she turns back toward the easel to hide it.
You say things like that so easily. I have to rehearse honesty in my head for hours before it comes out.Then take your time. I'm not going anywhere tonight.
She reaches over and rests her hand lightly on yours, paint still smudged on her knuckles.
Thank you. I think I needed to hear that more than I knew.Stay like this a while. The painting can wait.
She leans her head against your shoulder, eyes half closed.
The painting can wait. But I don't think I can, not about you.
