I followed the sound and found October sitting in front of an easel, tiny paintbrush in hand, working on a small canvas. Her face was maybe an inch away from the painting, like she was perfecting some minute detail. She was still wearing her dress, though she had a smock over it. Watercolor paints and a small Mason jar of water sat on another stool beside her.

She turned her head when she heard my footsteps, sighed, and said, “Go away.”

I kept heading toward her. And I think I expected to see an image more representative of her apparent mood on the canvas in front of her, but it was Diego. She was painting her dog.

I asked her what she was doing, and without taking her eyes off the canvas, she said, “I’m pretty sure the answer to that question is obvious.”

“I mean, why are you up at this hour?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

I grabbed a stool, pulled it up beside the easel, and sat down and watched her paint for a while. Eventually she huffed and said, “Do you mind? I really want to be alone.”

I shifted uncomfortably. I wanted to tell her things, but I didn’t know how. Story of my life, I know. My words were locked somewhere inside of me, and I had long ago lost the key.

Finally I said, “Nothing happened with that girl. I went for a walk and she followed me. I was—I don’t know—I just needed to get some air, and I lost track of time. But I didn’t—”

“Stop!” She slammed her paintbrush down on the stool beside her and the jar of water fell and spilled all over the floor. “Jesus Christ, Joe. Just leave me alone. Please.”

“I’m trying to explain something to you.”

“Well, you don’t have to. It makes no difference to me if you fucked that girl or not.” She put her elbows on her knees, her head fell into her hands, and she said, “What a mess.”

I didn’t know if she meant the spilled water or our lives, but I went to the sink, grabbed a bunch of paper towels, then walked back over and cleaned up the floor. After I threw the paper towels into the trash bin, I sat back down and said, “Can I ask you one thing before I go?”

She didn’t say I could, but she set the paintbrush down and turned toward me. Her eyebrows came alive and she blinked like crazy.

“If it doesn’t matter to you, then why are you so mad at me?”

She reached toward my chest, and I thought she was moving to touch me, to take my hand, to use her gift, but she just brushed dirt off my shirt.

She shook her head and said, “I don’t think you want me to answer that question.”

“Why not?”