In between bites of food, we’d talked. It’s clear Reid’s least favorite topic is his job, but he’d told me more about his family, and I’d even gotten him to tell me about the pool smell: he swims laps at the gym every single morning, five a.m. to six a.m. After he finishes, he eats the same breakfast each day: three eggs, one sliced tomato, one banana, one cup of—“Let me guess!” I’d interrupted—hot tea. And he’d listened with interest while I’d told him all about my first few months in New York—well, leaving out the crying parts—exploring the city with Sibby.

It was easy and honest and fun, and I’d felt Reid’s Especially me sparking like electricity in my fingers the whole time.

I’d drawn all through the train ride home, and I’ve kept drawing. At cafés, in between meetings with my regulars. At the shop, sometimes sitting and chatting with Lachelle or Cecelia, neither of them asking why I’ve been around more lately. At the apartment, in my room, sometimes with the occasional interruption from a text exchange with Reid—more pictures, more small games we’ve played. I’ve worked enough to have one complete treatment for the Make It Happyn job, something I’m pretty happy with, and I’d still managed to get time in for Lark’s commission.

Now I lean away from it all, giving Lark a better view and an apologetic smile.

“It’s possible I overdid it.”

She smiles back—a knowing, indulgent smile, one that makes me think Lark and I could probably be friends.

“But remember, what we’re looking for here is related to composition—a set of shapes that stick out to you. Try to ignore colors, for now.”

With this direction, Lark eliminates a few entries. Even though I told her to ignore colors, I pay attention to where she lingers, for future reference. At one point, she sets the tip of her index finger to a pale-pink and pale-green juxtaposition, inspired by the drinks I’d insisted on ordering at the taco place: one lime soda, one watermelon soda. I’d tasted both first and passed the lime one to Reid.

“This one’s not so sweet,” I’d said. “But mine tastes like cavities.” I’d taken a big drink just to see him shake his head in charming disapproval.

I look down at where Lark keeps her finger. Outside of the memory of the drinks Reid and I shared, this isn’t really to my taste—it sort of looks as if I drew this for the Lilly Pulitzer catalog. But maybe Lark—in spite of the skinny black jeans she’s wearing, the faded Ramones T-shirt that’s too big for her—has a secret hankering for flower-patterned sundresses and sweaters tied around her shoulders.