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“No.”

Roy smiles into his coffee. “Leave him alone, Frank. Some people like what they do.”

I return to the studio and spend another couple of hours proving that liking something doesn’t mean I know how to do all of it yet. Laura is home when I get back. Her shoes are beside the door, and I hear her moving around in the kitchen. She’s cutting vegetables beside the stove when I walk in, and the first thing I want to do is tell her about Carl’s friends.

“I met Frank and Roy.”

“Should I know who they are?”

“Carl says they’ve been lying about him for thirty years.”

That gets a laugh. “Then I already trust them more than Carl.”

I smile. “Roy volunteered Frank to model for me.”

Laura pauses with the knife. “For a portrait?”

“He didn’t say.”

Her laugh comes faster this time. “Oh, no.”

“Frank said his clothes are staying on.”

“Good for Frank.”

This feels familiar. I tell her about the argument over whether selling one painting makes me a professional artist, and she says I should have asked whether selling one painting means I get to start charging people for autographs.

“That was Carl’s argument.”

“See? Carl and I finally agree about something.”

Usually that would lead somewhere else. I would tell her she was becoming too much like Carl. She would tell me I had poor judgment in landlords. I would find something else to tease her about. Instead, Laura slides the vegetables into a bowl and reaches for the next thing she needs.

“Sounds like you had a good afternoon.”

“I did.”

“That’s nice.”

Nothing about the words is wrong, but the conversation ends anyway. She asks about painting, listens while I tell her what I’m working on, and reminds me not to bring anything wet into the condo.

Yesterday she stood in the studio doorway for ten minutes while I showed her where I’d scraped away a section because every color had turned to mud.

That part hasn’t changed. Something else has.

I reach past her for the hot sauce, and Laura steps aside before my arm can brush hers. Maybe she’s only giving me room.

I’ve been finding explanations like that for days.

“Did something happen at work?”

“No.” She looks at me. “Why?”

“You’re different.”

“I’m tired.”

Laura has been tired before. Tired Laura still teased me.