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didn't acknowledge
the fact. Michael watched her from behind, remaining quiet as he
did.
    Melanie mixed one paint color with another on
her palette and then applied it to her work. She was quick,
methodical, and efficient. Deciding he didn't want to interrupt, he
moved off to the side and sat on her couch—a raggedy excuse for
furniture, but it smelled clean and was comfortable.
    Several minutes passed and he simply watched
Melanie paint. Bathed in light, she continued to move without a
care in the world; nothing seemed to matter other than the task in
front of her. From time to time, she would reach to her left and
take a drink of what appeared to be tea; whatever it was, it was in
a clear glass filled with ice.
    When the glass was emptied after one such
absent-minded sip, it was set aside. Michael stood, went to his
lover, grabbed the glass, and headed to the kitchen. He smelled the
contents and nodded his head; it was ice tea. There was just enough
left for him to determine that it was sweetened lightly.
    Opening the refrigerator revealed a pitcher
of the liquid, and Michael refilled the glass; he gingerly took a
sip and realized it was not yet sweetened. Frowning, he looked
about the kitchen; it took only a moment for him to find the sugar,
it was already on the counter with a spoon next to it. Guessing as
to the amount, he measured out a small portion and sweetened the
beverage. He then returned it to her without her knowing.
    It was several minutes later, while he
watched from the couch, that she reached to her left. The full
glass of tea did not faze her in the least. Michael smiled and held
his breath as she took a sip. He must have gotten the amount of
sugar correct; she didn't respond to the flavor; she just put the
glass back when she was done taking a drink.
    As the minutes continued to pass and Michael
watched in fascination, it became apparent that Melanie was upset.
Something was wrong with the painting and she didn't appear to know
what. Michael pondered the work and thought it was fine the way it
was, but he understood her dilemma. He was an architect, and people
often told him something was fine, but many times the project did
not sit right with him.
    Melanie continued to become upset and
vigorously cleaned her brushes, only to apply more paint and try
again. Three or four more attempts were made before she cleaned her
brushes thoroughly and set them aside. She placed her palette down
and backed away, turning her head in a multitude of directions as
she did. She obviously wanted to see the painting from many
angles.
    One of the attempts succeeded in making her
aware of Michael's presence. She had caught him from a sideways
glance and then turned fully to him. Confusion reigned across her
face, and he watched her carefully. When comprehension dawned about
who he was, she smiled and joined him on the couch. She sat next to
him, pulled her legs up and laid her head into his lap. Michael
didn't say a word and began to stroke her hair. It was a full
minute before either spoke.
    "I just can't get that upper quadrant right,"
she said.
    "Do you know what you want it to look like?
Or, are you suffering from artist block?"
    "Maybe both," she replied.
    "Well, the architect in me screams for
symmetry, but that's not what you're about. However, you have a
great color scheme. Perhaps a gradation from light to dark."
    "A gradient won't work. It'll be too
subtle."
    "And you're not at all about being subtle,"
he said with a smile.
    Melanie turned her head to his leg and bit
him.
    "Ow," he said playfully. It had hurt, but not
that much. However, he was not about to let her know that fact.
Melanie laughed as she turned her head back to the canvas.
    "Well, if not subtle, then perhaps bold. How
about a radical color change? I would never do it, but then again
this is art not architecture," he said.
    Melanie sat up quickly and looked at him. He
could see that she was thinking. If he looked carefully, he
believed he might see the