The bowl of fruit sits in the center of the table, a white dish with green apples. Duncan has set his easel in front of mine, so that from where I am standing I can see the back of his head. I long to tuck the thick locks of hair that continually fall into his eyes behind his ears, run my fingers through his dark mane. I watch him looking at the shelves on the other side of the table and wonder if he will include them in his painting. I decide I will ignore them and concentrate on the dish of fruit. I start to block out my design. There is a bottle near the edge of the table and its shadow falls across the apples. I realize there is a relationship between it and the fruit and I keep it in. Duncan has already begun working. His brush dips in and out of his colors. I am slower in my movements. Each choice, each brush stroke is much more a matter of deliberation. We paint until late in the afternoon. I become absorbed in the cadence of the work and for a time forget the outside world. Only Duncan’s presence is real. It is as if the two of us have entered a different sphere. Our eyes travel the same raft of light, converge on the same objects.

Suddenly, a cry pierces the stillness. I recognize it instantly. It is Quentin, waking from his nap, hungry and wanting my attention. I wipe my brush. For the first time, I look at what I have done. My dish and apples are colossal. They are hewn from granite, monumental. I approve. The way they dominate my composition is right. Duncan is still painting. I steal a look at his canvas and am aghast. While my objects are statuesque, almost ugly in their solidity, his are shapely, iridescent. In his picture the fruit and bottle and table are part of an intricate exchange of shadow and light. My eye follows the reiteration of curves that runs from apple to dish to the jars on the shelves. I note the subtle gradations of hue and compare it to my own crude use of color. I know that I am in the presence of a great artist. My sense of mediocrity as I climb the stairs is familiar.