“Cory?” I began. “This whole thing we’ve got going—”

“What thing? You mean us? You and me?”

“Well, yes,” I said, “except there’s more to it than just you and me. There always has been.”

I didn’t want to use the word idyll. I’d used it in the beginning—when we set up our shared studio—and attached no irony to it at all. Now, looking back, I was embarrassed by my own earnestness. What had I been thinking? That we could live our entire lives like characters in a romantic opera? Perpetually in love, and making money from dashed-off novels and paintings?

“It’s not working for me,” I said. “I’m not doing anything; I’m just hanging about, being your so-called muse. For goodness’ sake, I don’t know how to be a poet or a storyteller. I mean, who was I kidding? I want to go home. I don’t like it here anymore.”

It was my intention to hurt him. I was tempted to add that I didn’t like him either, but that was a step too far; a self-fulfilling prophecy I wasn’t quite ready to fulfill. Also, I was conscious of being alone with him on a deserted hillside, and I was nervous for my neck.

“I’m not sure I ever really wanted to write,” I said. “I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to be a Writer?”

I could feel him looking at me. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No, it’s not.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, either, because I had wanted to write. I was being hard on myself in order to be hard on him; on “us”; on the whole stupid setup.

Cory faced the road and held his hand out, implying he’d rather we talked as we walked, but I sat on the grass and drew my knees up to my chin. He hesitated before sitting down beside me. We watched the sky grow paler, turning the leaden sea to silver. A trawler emerged into view, carving a long, clean ripple in its wake.

“You can write.” Cory made as if to stroke my hair, but held off when I winced. “You’d find it easier, though, if you stopped overthinking everything.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Meaning what?”

He was ready with a fully fledged answer; clearly he’d been turning this over in his mind for a while.

“You always try to be too deep and elaborate,” he said. “You ought to just write what you know; what you see; what’s there, in front of you.”

“That’s your method, is it?” I said. “When you paint me, you just put down what’s there?”

“I suppose.” Cory shrugged and plucked at the grass. “Anyway, what does it matter if you can or can’t write?”