“She probably got a deal on it. Maybe fifty? It had five shows on it, one in every location. It’s not your problem,” he reassured me.

“No,” I agreed, too embarrassed to reveal that my contract made it my problem, apparently, ten thousand dollars’ worth of my problem.

“You know your Blake, though,” he said.

“Yes. I love Blake. I love anyone who takes apart the church and tries to put you back together again.”

“Your family’s religious?”

“My mother is,” I said. “She sins—and she prays—and she asks to be forgiven. Rinse and repeat.” I trailed off, and felt him let me go, back behind my wall. “I’m living with more of a creative faith these days. It’s the only thing I feel.”

“Why are the paintings called what they’re called?”

“Those words are women’s words, if you know what I mean. Those aren’t words used to police men’s behavior. Only—only women’s. I was raised to believe that being all of those things was important. More important than anything else. But I’m—I’m sick of them. It was time to grow up. For me, I mean.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means…the paintings are things that I love but I no longer need. Making a painting is a way to discard something. I put it in the painting, and then I’m over it. Or through it, maybe.” Then I rolled my eyes at myself. “It doesn’t always work. I’m still dyeing my hair pink, for example, even though I did a painting called Hair Money.”

“Then—the names are very apt. Your paintings are transparent. It’s like seeing your feelings. It’s pretty unsettling, actually.”

“Thank you. They didn’t have names until, I don’t know, five or six years ago,” I explained.

“Why not?”

“I was too self-contained,” I said. “I was making unconsciously. Even in art school I made unconsciously. Everybody treated me like I was Rain Man.”

“What happened?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I lied, downing my beer, hiding my face as I walked to the refrigerator and reached in for another. I didn’t want to tell him—I didn’t want to tell anybody. Not ever.

“So how long does it normally take?”

“To make a painting?”

“Yeah.”

“Three, four months. I’ve never tried to go fast.”

“How long do you have?”

“Uh—” I counted in my head. “Thirty-five days of painting. Thirty days to dry. That’s when I have to build the frames and crates.”

“Wow. Frames like the one at Max’s house?”

“No, they’re much better now. I know.” I doubled over, and dropped my head between my knees. “It’s too much.”

“Why not wait? I mean, why not put off the show?”