A gust swirled the
tails of Raines' paint-spattered linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his
biceps, as if it were the dog days of August, not the chill gloom of February.
“You must come in, sir--the wind’s kicking up and you haven’t eaten in two days.”
Raines tossed his
brush, the bristles slathered with Mars Black, onto the palette in irritation with
himself and his absent muse.
The unfinished landscape was all
that stood between the ravening beast pacing with increasing agitation
inside him and the rest of the world. Hot with fever, his rising temperature bursting through the fuckin' stratosphere--and his muse had deserted him.
You picked a fine
time to leave me, Lucille.
***
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