Poking her brush at the paper, Bianca mutters, “This looks like ass.”
PI glance at her perfectly decent watercolor landscape. “Hey, you’re doing better than me. My trees clearly have some kind of disease.”
She’s always been the more artistic one. It was her idea to spend our lazy Saturday afternoon sipping cheap wine at a nearby painting studio that offers classes. Not that I objected—after the week I’ve had, the instructor’s hypnotically calm voice is more than welcome, and the act of painting is also soothing, despite how much I suck at it. Plus, Bianca’s mother bought her a gift card here last Christmas, and so this little excursion doesn’t hurt my pocketbook.
We mix and dab in comfortable silence for a while before Bianca asks, “So how’d your first week at the new job go?”
I hesita
