And at night, I would paint until my arms gave out, filling my room with Rusula's colors, with her shape. The paintings would sell, or they wouldn't. I'd have to paint them, all the same. I could already see them: warm repellent, irresistible, so saturated with color that they gave the illusion of emitting light. I'd have no peace until they were painted, and I would never be able to paint enough.
Nervous footsteps pattered along the pavement below, stopping just before my house. I turned to the window. Sparks of red and violet ricocheted across my ceiling, reflections from the jeweled crowd passing below. A girl's voice called me, and I rose.