Iris
Arthur leaves after that, which is both a relief and a disappointment for reasons I’m not sure if I’m ready to admit. Miles is happily playing in the guest bedroom, so I leave him be and head straight to my studio, ready to get to work.
Over the next couple of hours, I slip back into my groove. The brush moves across the canvas like an extension of my arm, a dizzying array of black, sky blue, and gentle shades of pink.
The painting I’m working on first comes to me without even having to plan it ahead of time; it’s an impressionist depiction of a park bench beneath a lovely pink cherry tree, delicate blossoms fluttering down to the ground. On the bench sits a torn-up canvas, the shreds of fabric mingling with the pink and white petals.
I want to paint Selina in the back
