Loris lets out a laugh that Charles feels inside his own chest.
‘Did you take classes?’
‘Obviously. You should remove your coat or you’re gonna boil. The thermostat is fucked, it’s all or nothing.’
‘Don’t “obviously” me. There’s nothing obvious about you. Which is my own fault. I couldn’t imagine that a bartending rugby-coaching smartarse fanboy would happen to be a masterful artist.’
‘Wait, say that again, I’m gonna change my Instagram bio!’
Grinning, Loris opens the built-in closet on the right side of his TV stand. Charles throws his coat, scarf and suit jacket onto the backrest of the sofa and sits sideways against the mismatched pillows to gaze at the drawing.
‘Did you go to art school?’
‘I took evening classes back in France.’
‘When did you start?’
‘About seven years ago.’
‘So you were in… what you calllycée? High school?’
‘Yeah. I mean, I had just joined a regular high school. Before that, I was in a sports study programme, but I had to quit when my knees went like, “A career in rugby? Sorry, dude, not in this life.”’
Charles looks back at Loris, who’s pushing the coffee table aside with the body parts that betrayed him.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It sucked, but my mum is a wise woman. She knew I had a natural gift for art, so she enrolled me to take my hands off my punching ball. It did wonders for my spirits.’
‘I bet. Did you get a degree?’
‘No, it was just a community centre. But who needs diplomas? The real key to success is to know how to make yourself indispensable. Oh, come on!’
Loris is wrestling with something stuck in the closet. Charles moves to offer his help, but Loris finally pulls out a folded easel. He then grabs a wooden case, a plank and a roll of masking paper, and brings everything to the space he freed up.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I told you I was gonna multitask.’
Loris removes a sheet of wax paper from inside a large portfolio and turns it towards Charles, who bounces back up.
‘Stop it!’
It can’t be colour pencils. It has to be photos. A crafty photomontage of a cracked mirror floating like a cork in a raging ocean. Except the mirror wouldn’t have a shadow if it were a montage. And the pieces of glass wouldn’t be blank, waiting for Loris to draw the shattered reflection of the waves.
‘This isn’t art, this is witchcraft. Patty is helping you!’
‘If she had powers, I’d get her to mind-sharpen these five-hundred pencils.’
‘How do you do this? Can I watch?’
‘I’d rather not. That’d be distracting, having you stare from behind my back.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Charles would hate it if someone read a work-in-progress over his shoulder. His brain needs sharpening too.
‘What about you? Do you draw? Or paint?’
