I end up staying at Alex's for three days. Eventually, it is Caspar who throws me out, giving me the heart warming advice to "either tell the God damned girl the truth, or get over your sobbing ass". To his defence: Alex told me pretty much the same thing, just kinder.

As I slowly step up the stairs to my studio (silently praying that Michael won't be close by) I make up a plan in my head:

If she doesn't remember me, I will not be the one to remind her. Sylvia might, or might not still be the love of my life, but if she didn't care enough to remember my face, then that is her problem, not mine.

"I sound like a bitchy mad man," I murmur to myself. I unlock the apartment door and step inside.

On the floor right inside the door, lays three days worth of post in a messy pile. Sighing, I pick them up, planning on just ignoring them for a bit more, when an envelope catches my attention. The letter is marked as priority, from Capital News head office down town. My mind goes blank for a moment, and I remember Sylvia telling me I would be sent papers to fill out. Judging by the weight and thickness of the envelope, quite many papers.

Grabbing a pen, I sit down in the sofa, and begin filling out the forms. Well, as well as I can. Some things are easy enough - name, address, earnings per year - others... not so much. After an hour of googling and calling my parents for help, I manage to fill every row that applies to me. I put the papers in the return envelope, and leave it to the mail station down the street.

Then I start sketching.

***

True to her word, she is at least, that Sylvia. By the end of the next the week the money reaches my account. Happy to finally be able to begin the painting I've been sketching on for the past week, I sprint down to the art store three blocks away. I had called the man working there, Mr. Bowe, three days earlier ordering a canvas according to Sylvia's measurements.

No. Not "Sylvia". If I am to see her as a mere customer, then I will address her as one. The client's measurements.

Mr. Bowe - who knows me as his most loyal costumer - was probably more exciting than I when I told him of the painting.

"This is your breakthrough, I tell you!" he'd yelled over the phone.

Now he looks up with a broad smile as I rush into the store. "So, the money has come, I recon?" He puts away the newspaper he was reading, and comes over to me.

"Is it done?" I ask as he hugs me.

He lets out a laugh, his moustache curling with his smile. "In a hurry, as always I see." He turns and walk to the back of the store, waving me along. "I finished yesterday, it's the grandest piece I've made in a long time. I'm looking forward to seeing what you'll make of it." He shows me into the small workshop in the back, a room I have always found cosy and calm.

Leaning against the back wall is a truly huge canvas. For a moment I get intimidated by the size, by the motive I've decided to paint; but a bubbling feeling in my knees - the same I get whenever I've been sitting down for too long - makes me want to jump up and down in joy. Yes, this will be my greatest painting ever.

"O, Danni, you have that look in your eyes again," Mr. Bowe says. I look up at him to find him smiling at me, in a way a father smiles at his silly child. "Go. Clara is in the back, packing up the car for a delivery. She will drive you home.”

Clara Bowe greets me with open arms as Mr. Bowe and I carry out the canvas through the back garage gate. The woman was a very skilled woodworker who made anything from violins to designer furniture, but due to a skiing accident in the Alps, she is left missing three fingers on her left hand and four on her right. Even though many has encouraged her to train up her skill again, she felt like fate was trying to tell her something. She now works for her brother in the art shop, and does photography in her free time. Her story has inspired many of my paintings, and will probably inspire even more.

“So, you were the one to order that monster of a canvas!” she says, as she hugs me. “Eli told me about your client, but I still cannot believe it. You are really becoming something!” She smiles at me. “I am proud to call you my brothers most loyal customer.”

I laugh at her. “Thanks for giving me a ride, Clara, I appreciate it.”

She gives me a look and climbs into the van. “You think they would have let you onto the bus with that?” She snorts. “I don’t think so.” She starts the engine as I sit beside her, and we are off.

“So,” I say, looking at the delivery list. “You going to the Forest School of Art today, huh.” I squint at her. “Since when does such a popular school order paint from a small place like yours?”

She huffs at me. “We might be small, but we have the good stuff.” I give her a look. “And the art teacher is an old friend of Elliott's, but don’t tell him I told you that.” She winks at me.

“Oohhh,” I muse, “An old friend, huh.” We both giggle like children for a while, making jokes on Mr. Bowe and his “friend’s” behalf. Too soon my apartment building comes into view.

Clara stops the engine and climbs out. She opens the back of the van, and we pull the canvas out together. Carrying it up the stairs proves to be easier than we both thought, and soon enough the giant is leaning against the sofa in my studio.

“Thank you Clara, really, you are the best.”

She waves me off. “Don’t bother, it’s ‘cause of you that we go around each month. Promise me that you will never learn how to clean your brushes, or we will have to close the shop.”

I laugh at her. “I promise.”

She hugs me tight. “Now go make some good art, dear.” Then she is out the door.

I slump down in the sofa, letting out a deep sigh. Yes, it is time to make some great art. I pick up my sketch book from the table and stare at the messy scribbles that is to be the painting for Sylvia. The motive is chaotic, but the focal-point is calm and steady; a girl stands in the middle, young and exposed to the mess that surrounds her. The air is filled with dirt and blood, as if the ground around her has blown up; there are various weapons hanging midair to her sides, forming the shapes of wings, and if you dare to look close enough you will see letters printed across her palms.

I squint at the sketch. I start to see my painting process in the quick lines on the paper, and that bubbling feeling in my knees begin again.

Yes, it is time to make some great art.

I lose track of time as I stand, covering the canvas in light layers of paint. The painting goes rather quick since the palette is mostly black and white and grey, with just small hints of colour on the girl’s skin and in some places in the background. It is not until the natural light flooding my studio starts to dim, that I realise the entire day has come and gone. I plug in and turn on my beloved studio lights, equipped with lamps that mimic daylight. The lights grant me a couple of more hours of active painting, before I literally collapse on my bed – fully clothed – and go out cold.