The poet ventured into the Mermaid's studio, observing the paintings on the easels. In the first one, there was an elegant woman with a red hat; in the next, a young lady with tears in her eyes hiding her face with her straight hair; in another, a tear rolling down the corner of an eye; and on a nearby table, sketches of characters and more eyes with lashes rested.

Among them, he found a canvas whose position indicated it had been finished recently. It was a sphere composed of various shades of blue that instantly captivated him. Meanwhile, the Mermaid prepared a blank canvas, arranging paints of various colors on a palette and starting to sketch a quick image with a brush.

"Isn't that the new planet?" Christopher asked.

"Yes, Neptune; I call it Blue," she replied, and then showed him the sketch she had made. It depicted them fleeing from the civil guard.

As Christopher observed it, the Mermaid wrote "Chris" above the character that represented him.

"You're good," he said, appreciating the certainty of the drawing despite its rapid execution.

"No, I wish," she replied with disappointment. She prepared another blank canvas on another easel. "So you can draw too," she said, handing him a piece of charcoal.

The poet didn't know where to start. He had never painted; he could only make quick, unelaborated strokes, like anyone else. He selected something in his mind and began making uncertain lines, but a few moments later, he had to sneak a look at the Mermaid to imitate her technique. She used delicate strokes with the brush. Christopher tried to do the same, struggling to capture what he had imagined.

"Done," he said with some confidence after several minutes.

The Mermaid approached to inspect. What she found was a childlike sketch: sticks and circles trying to depict La Catedral de San Francisco as they walked through it.

"But what is this? What is this thing?" she tried to understand the reason for such strokes.

The poet didn't know how to defend what he had done.

"You and me," he clarified with reluctance.

"No, no, no," she disapproved, pursing her lips with the weight of drawing techniques, and she took the charcoal from him.

"I don't have as much skill as you."

"But this... this is... I don't know what it is. You're supposed to be the artist."

The Mermaid returned to the canvas she was painting and began to dismantle it.

"I'm a poet, not a painter."

"Neither poet nor painter. You don't deserve to see my work; I'm very disappointed in you."

She leaned the canvas against the easel legs, hiding the painting.

"Instead of mocking my drawing, why don't you teach me how to paint?" the poet asked.

"Mocking? No, I'm just telling the truth. Besides, with me as your teacher, you wouldn't even pass the first class."

"Maybe because you can't teach."

She displayed an offended expression and crossed her arms. However, it all seemed to be part of a playful fight; the poet was somewhat serious, but she was playing, trying to provoke something.

"I can't believe it. I don't know why I brought you here. I should have left you outside to be killed."

"If you want, I'll leave so you can feel it more."

"Okay, let's see, go ahead."

The poet approached the exit, tempting her to see if she was serious. The Mermaid stood firm in her decision. Then the poet left and slammed the door shut.

The Mermaid remained pensive in silence. After a moment, she hurriedly ran to the door and opened it, but he was no longer there.

She went out into the hallway looking for him and reached the descending steps. Everything was silent. She extended a leg to step down the stair, but then the poet appeared behind her, took her by the waist, and gently subdued her against the wall.

"Do you really want me to be killed?" he whispered in her ear.

The Mermaid's defenses fell, just like her little game. She noticed that the poet's lips were close to hers and felt her whole body seduced.

"Yes," she replied weakly.

The poet looked at her with confidence, directly in the eyes, while he held her hand firmly against her navel. The Mermaid struggled not to meet his gaze but had no strength to resist. Both pupils were magnetically drawn together, and they looked at each other with an intensity they hadn't anticipated. The Mermaid's eyelids surrendered, and she moved her lips a few centimeters closer to his. The poet waited to see if she dared to kiss him. But she stopped halfway, lowered her gaze with a sad despair, and fell silent.

"It's cold," she made up.

She slipped away from the wall, and the poet watched her as she returned to the room.