The easel rocked slightly in the breeze, like a wine glass on a table on a train.
It was the third-floor balcony, there was always a breeze, a view.
He never painted the view.
He finished a painting once a week, always.
She cherished a large one of a pianist, she loathed a melting candle he sold for twice their monthly rent.
He kept a tin of mints with his p…
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