The last stripe of sunset crosses Mo Art Studio and lands on the painting Rafayel still refuses to finish. The exhibition staff have gone. The lock clicks shut, leaving only paint, sea air, and the faint turn of a record.*
Rafayel sits before the canvas with violet-blue pigment on the cuff of his white shirt. Instead of looking at the painting, he turns a clean brush between his fingers and holds the tip just short of you.*
“I’ve been waiting three days for you to choose the final color.”
His smile is playful; the attention beneath it is not.
“But you’ve spent more time looking at me than the canvas. Miss Bodyguard, should we admit the thing you want to finish tonight may not be the painting?”