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him is no different than running into an acquaintance on the street…idle chitchat for the mundane people. Taking a seat myself, I motion for Wilt to sit back down. He tells me Ferry will be here in about an hour.
    “Isn’t he worried about lighting this late in the day?”
    “I don’t ask questions like that. He knew the circumstances and the environment. He wanted to come. I figure he can make it work and do it well. I’m sure he’s bringing lighting with him.”
    I nod in agreement. He’s right. Ferry can create a masterpiece from mud, which is a good thing because that pretty closely resembles what he’ll be doing in my kitchen. Wilt eases into the interview like a pro, making me feel as though we’re just chatting over coffee.
    The real whirlwind starts when Ferry knocks on my door with his entourage. As a painter, I’ve always worked alone. Even when I have models, they’re silent participants who don’t move unless told to, so seeing this flurry of people stampeding through my door is overwhelming. It doesn’t take much for me to feel immense anxiety and panic. I’ve lived alone for five years, isolating myself from anyone and everyone that used to know Sylvie and the man I once was with her. That normalcy, that solitude, turns into fear after a while. I don’t do well in crowds and prefer the shadows of loneliness to the bustle of people.
    “Bastian!” Ferry bounds in the door, making his way straight to me and grappling me in an awkward man hug. It’s so tight I could suffocate if he doesn’t let go. Praise God he does—right before the stars in my eyes became blackness. Shit. I’m a little unsteady as he sets me back down to the floor. Ferry is enormous and built like a brick shithouse. I’m tall, but he dwarfs me. He has to be at least five inches taller than I am and a hundred plus pounds heavier, but it’s solid muscle. I can admit when another man is good looking, I’m secure in my masculinity. This man is easy on the eyes. Women flock to him for his looks and his notoriety. I won’t mention the other things I’ve heard women come to him for. He has quite the reputation around town for satisfying the opposite sex, and lots of them.
    “Hey, Ferry. It’s been a long time.”
    “Yeah, man, it has. Enough of the pleasantries. Let’s see it.”
    Ferry was never one for mincing words. He says what’s on his mind regardless of how inappropriate it is or whom he offends. Running my hand through my hair, I resign myself to this fate. I feel as though I could throw up right here in the living room on the floor. Jesus. I’ve never had any apprehension about my art, but this is almost more than I can bear.
    “Damn, Bastian. Calm down. We’re all friends here. You’re sweating like a nun in a brothel.” Ferry shakes his head at me. I get that he doesn’t understand my fear. From the moment he hit the top he hasn’t faltered. His career’s been strong, he beat the odds, becoming world-renowned and respected while still living. Most artists never achieve that kind of fame. In this profession, you have to die for anyone to think your work is valuable. Not Ferry, though. People pay tens of thousands of dollars for him to capture moments of their lives on film.
    Ignoring his comment, I suck in a sharp breath. As I begin to release it, I take one step at a time toward the kitchen, trying to convince myself these people are here because they believe in me. Ferry follows me into the kitchen. I don’t turn on the lights. I allow the natural light that still remains to showcase the piece on the wall. He comes completely into the room before turning to face my work, as if he needed to see it at one time, not in pieces.
    I watch in silence as he takes in my temporary canvas. When he starts to move, I step to the side. I can see him working, even though he says nothing. He moves, tilting his head, getting different angles, watching the way the remaining sun plays on the textures. Kneeling,