A wasp crawls over the raised flowers of an upturned jar on the wood of the windowsill. Beside is a trinket sized green vase set to hold a bunch a dried daisies now pale yellow in the dust. Wooden artist's pallets smeared with paint are piled in the tin sink. A milk crate underneath holds canvas and smaller boxes of paint tubes. My friend stands on the aged floorboards holding back the curtain in the kitchen window. 

"Evalyn," my friend calls my attention.

It seems she has finished squinting through the wavy glass in the window at colorful strangers and dusty traffic.

I respond the way I should. "Yes."

"Why won't you meet him?"

My horsehair brush leaves a trail of rust orange over my canvas as I sit in a corner of the living room. There painted light shines outside the back door of a cabinet club, the accumulation of my dream-filled nights where I found myself killed by a child I once knew. It is this unease that I transfer to my canvas.

"Are you listening?" Rita asks. 

"Why is it that society wants us to marry," I say with no consideration.

"Do you even know who I mean?" she asked offended.

I don't. I haven't remembered for a while now. Details blur with the stroke of my brush. I think it's a symptom of my sleepless nights. The smell of oil paint keeps me awake. There had been a vague idea that if I let her see my work then perhaps it can turn into a fantasy not my own. I know that I was saved and that I should be happy, but I tire of the hopeless expression on the faces of people I meet, joyous at the experience of meeting me, disappointed when I hold my hand over their mouth and slit their throat, let the blood condense in a multitude of bowls.

"Charles," my friend Rita stated. "My husband."

"He won't like me," I respond.

"What?"

"You said he was from an expensive house. He would think this place is trash."

I didn't want to meet another person and my statement was usually true. Men were jealous of a woman with independence.

“Oh, Evalyn. I just want people to like you.”

“Your being rude. I told you to bring your sketchbook.” 

A bullet lets loose and the target of her pain in has fallen off the edge of the canvas with only splayed feet in view. The ones who bought it would never know the downed man was a vampire. My front door slams shut at Rita's retreat. I'll see her again.

I lift a paint tube to my nose and take whiff the sharp chemical paste. My head spins giddily as the tightness of my stomach relaxes. I had told her I was allergic to perfume, but these silly humans insisted on making themselves smell like seasoned steaks. 

I stood up to use the phone wired into the wall in the kitchen, fitting my fingers into the holes into the dialler and spinning the wheel to complete the number that would connect me to my more understanding friend. 

“Hello,” came a woman’s voice. 

“Lilly. It’s me. Is James there?”

“You're calling now. He’s hanging his new paintings now. Can’t you wait till tomorrow. Don’t come down the ladder,” Lilly called to James.

A silence ensued as the receiver exchanged hands. 

“Clara. I am so sorry about my wife. I think she is jealous.”

“It’s Evelyn,” I remind him. 

“Right. The name change.”

“I sign that name on every painting,” I accuse. 

“Old habits. Don’t worry, my wife thinks it’s your nickname.”

“It’s fine James. Did anything sell?”

“About that. I think people are starting to be more interested in family portraits.”

Nothing sold. That was odd. I always tracked down where my paintings went because I was curious in the kinds of people who liked my work and I had discovered that certain pieces got passed to an anonymous employer to whom the buyer did not appear to have a connection. 

“But do you know who you should look into.”

“Who?”

“The human, I mean the girl from your art class. Her family has a history of hunting things down.”

“James. Every noble family has a history of violence. If anything, humans are the ones becoming numb to us.”

“You're talking about the species who killed each other in paranoid with trials.”

“And you are talking to a woman who married a fine man of your race.”

“I’m just saying Clara. Put yourself first. The humans who took your home deserved the vampire that they imagined you to be. It should be them in your paintings.”

I quietly hung up the phone.