“It’s like the Godzilla of goldfish, terrorizing the whole city.” He’s looking straight ahead, smiling.

“I don’t care what you say. I love my city-eating goldfish.”

He laughs and looks over at me. “Me too.”

The bridge dumps us out onto a sidewalk that winds between office buildings and storefronts, and a block down we cross the street into a small parking lot filled with picnic tables and lined with food trucks.

“You really don’t draw or anything?” he asks.

“I really don’t. I’m not sure why that’s so surprising.”

“Because you’re a writer. Writers are observers, and so are artists. You’ve got the perfect eye for art. I’m sure of it.” He adjusts the brim of his hat. “We just have to figure out what your thing is.”

We stop in front of a bright red truck with a yellow awning and a giant white pig painted on one side. It smells like the ribs my grandpa made when I was little, and there’s nothing I want more than to sink my mouth into some gooey barbecue. Nothing except not making a fool of myself with Aiden. Because this may not be a date, but he’s still a hot guy. Way too hot to watch barbecue sauce drip down my face.

“Two hot dogs. Chicago-style, please,” he says to the middle-aged woman at the window as he pulls money out of his pocket. He looks at me questioningly and I shake my head. I’m suddenly not hungry. We walk as Aiden eats.

We’re on a side street and behind us is a two-story monstrosity made of metal. I can’t take my eyes off of it.

“What is this?” I nod up at the dark brown creature’s snout hanging over us on the sidewalk.

“Steam Pig.” There’s a very noticeable sense of awe in Aiden’s voice. “This was one of the featured exhibits they had on the website.”

My eyes wander over the creature’s riveted snout and its rocket-like legs. There must be at least fifteen feet between me and the metal beast’s belly, and another fifteen to the top of his head. “Interesting,” I mutter, pulling my eyes back to Aiden, who is looking at this giant chunk of metal like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“I bet this was a bitch to put together.”

“This took a serious plan,” I add, and Aiden nods. “You don’t put something like this together on a whim.”

“Most art doesn’t come together that way. Not for me, at least.”

“Me either,” I add. “With writing, I mean. I need a plan.”

“Maybe someday it will come to us without so much effort—the words and pictures.”

“You think?”

He laughs. “Now’s not a great time to ask me. I’m not exactly the king of optimism at the moment.”