“You know what would make me happy?” He pulled off his glasses and polished them.

“I shudder at the possibilities.” She headed into the studio, knowing exactly why he’d called.

“I’d be happy if my client was painting something I could sell.”

“Excuse me. I hope you’re more understanding about personal crises with your other clients who haven’t yet fired you.”

“And she’s back to mean,” Rajesh said with satisfaction. “Tell me you’ve at least picked up a freaking brush.”

She’d done more than that. Slowly but surely, she’d begun to forge a path back to her art. In Chicago, she’d painted nearly every day. Here, with a large, manly distraction constantly in her periphery, she’d started to settle into a new routine. One that could accommodate her aggressive sex-having schedule.

“I’ve got two pieces for you to look at,” she told her agent.

“About fucking time, dude.”

“Bite me.” The man was a pain in the ass, but he “got” her. And her art. He had an eye for what was great and what was an imitation of great. She turned the camera around so he could see the painting.

“Burn it,” he announced.

She rolled her eyes. “Ass!”

He was right, of course. It was sloppy. The colors were off, and she’d overdone it, not trusting her instincts that told her when the piece was finished.

“Hey, if you want your hand held, go get a different agent. If you want a motherfucking avalanche of dolla bills, stick with me. I’ll tell you when a piece says ‘badass baller.’ Next.”

Early on in their relationship, she’d once broken a canvas over his head. He’d worn the wood frame like a laurel around his neck while he told her the next piece made her a goddamn genius.

“Fine. Here’s the other piece,” she said, moving the camera. This one was a bigger painting. Pastels in yellow and pink mixed with navy blue on a milky background. She’s painted it to violinist Tim Fain’s “Freedom” in a weekend while Brick had back-to-back shifts at the bar and station.

“Now that’s baller, dude. I can sell the shit out of that.”

“Really?” Remi couldn’t quite hide the swift rush of pride.

“Shut up. You know it’s good. Gimmie. Send it A-SAP.”

“You realize that packages are delivered by horses here, right?”

“Dude, I don’t care if you send it to me by orphaned carrier pigeons. Get it here fast before everyone forgets who the hell you are.” He kicked back and draped his arm over the back of a sofa. Her sofa.

“Are you at my place again?”

“Your casa is my casa,” he said affably.

“No. My casa is my casa.”

“Eh. My Wi-Fi went out at home today. I’m borrowing yours on my way to some happy hour thing for the Arts Council. When did you say you were coming back again?”

She hadn’t, and he knew it. “I still have some things to work out first.”

“Be tee dubs. I’m sending you two hundred prints.”