Yellow Ceramic Mug and Red Silk Scarf in a Red Buick

the dust motes that danced in the air. The room smelled of linseed oil and the dry, chalky scent of the raw pigments I kept in glass jars on the shelf. I stood before my easel, holding a wooden palette, though my brush remained dry.

The front door bell did not ring, but I heard the heavy latch click open. Julian’s footsteps were slow and deliberate continue reading …