Inside, my unfinished painting was still tacked to the wall, a panel of dark, smudged purples and blues on black, like a well of bruises. I thought about the Bernice Bing painting with the figure floating in the upper left, and wanted to add something similar. I rummaged through the acrylic paints in the cabinets and pulled out yellow and orange and red. I loaded up one of the smaller brushes and painted a circle in the upper left in yellow, as if it were a sun. It was too bright, so I darkened it with some orange. That looked like an egg yolk, which I didn’t like, so I took the red and trailed some lines from it, which made it look like a bleeding egg yolk.

It was all wrong. It looked like a kid’s painting.

I put my fingertip on the orange paint, which was still wet, and smeared it vigorously. I liked the way the yellow and orange partially mixed, so I smeared it some more. I ran my fingers over the red, too, weaving orange trails into it like wavering sunbeams.

I stepped back. It still looked like a kid’s painting, and not even a good one. I’m so stupid, I thought, to believe I can do this.

My phone dinged. I went to the sink and scrubbed my hands, and as I watched the colors swirl down the drain, I thought about the painting of the blue-skinned woman watching us as we kissed for the first time.

I dried my hands on a paper towel and finally let myself pick up my phone from the worktable. The text was from Steph. It was just after seven.

Be there soon.

—

Earlier, I had taken my clothes into the bathroom to avoid waking Tasha while I got dressed. Now I went into the house to brush my teeth and change out of my paint-spattered T-shirt. I put on a lacy pink bra, and the thought that Steph might see it made my skin tingle.

I knew what Steph and I were doing was wrong. Everyone would say so. Lisa would definitely say so, but she seemed irrelevant to the way I felt. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I had convinced myself she’d never know. Our universes would not cross. Today was August 2, and I was leaving in nineteen days. We had less than three weeks left together.

When I heard the creak of the gate, all my senses went on alert. I forced myself to wait for three full breaths. Then I went out to the shed, where I knew she’d go first, and when she rounded the corner of the house, I was waiting.

“Good morning,” she said. She was dressed for yard work, but I thought she’d taken extra care with her hair.

“Hey,” I said. “Do you want to come see the painting?”

She smiled. “Sure.”