Claudia shrugged. She wanted to make Art. She could identify it, she was drawn to it, and she could pay for it—but she couldn’t seem to create it. She excelled at figure drawing and still life. If it was there in front of her she could imitate its contours. What she couldn’t do was bring it to life. The dancer on her wall conveyed a sense of movement, maybe even grace, but she couldn’t manage to blow a spirit into what she drew. Nothing she’d ever made—not her tries at sculpture and mixed media, watercolor, or photography—opened anyone’s eyes any wider. Real artists could show you the truth you hadn’t noticed. Real artists had something to say.

Well, thought Claudia as she picked up her phone and looked once more at Chad’s Instagram, I may never be a real artist, but I definitely have something to say.

She walked to her desk and awoke the sleeping computer with a wag of the mouse. In the bag she’d taken to Poughkeepsie was her old cell phone, the one Chad sent the video to. She connected the phone to the computer and uploaded the video. The opening image was the close-up of her mouth. When she’d first seen it, the sensation that shot through her cells was rooted in shame. What did I do? She remembered squeezing her eyes shut, banging and banging on that black door in her mind. Did I agree to that? But watching it now, it was so clear: She might as well have been a dead body. Her slack and sloppy face was embarrassing; it was going to haunt her forever. But what stood out to her this time was not her expression, it was Chad’s. His smile was one of triumph. The smile of a man who couldn’t contain his glee. A man utterly unburdened by the experience of anyone else in the room, in the world.