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Inside, the space is warm and bright, shelves lined with blank ceramics and finished pieces that are drying. It smells like wet clay and paint. A couple sits in the corner decorating their matching mugs, laughing and giggling like they’re starring in a commercial for the latest antidepressant drug.

A woman greets us and explains the process. Casper appears completely entranced. Afterward, we’re instructed to pick an item from the shelf and grab our paints.

“You know this is going to ruin your reputation, right?” I ask, surveying all the items on the shelf and selecting a plain coffee mug.

“I contain multitudes. And tonight,” he says, grasping the handle of a matching mug, “you’re going to experience a different flavor of it. So get on board.”

I can’t help but laugh, following him to the table, accepting that we really are just painting a mug. Duality of man.

We pluck paintbrushes from the jar and select our colors. At first, I try to take it seriously, I really do, choosing a pale pink and warm cream. They pair well and easily blend together, fitting with my things at home—just in case I opt to use it as a pencil cup.

However, across from me, Casper is . . . not doing that.

He’s hunched over the mug with the same focused fervor he exhibits at Black Rabbit. Jesus, of course he’s going to go all introspective with it, he’s a fucking artist.

“What are you painting?” I say, leaning forward to get a look.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“What do you mean? You’re actively drawing something. What is it?”

“I’m just scribbling.” He looks over at mine. “Oh, gradient . . . Very brave of you,” he mocks.

I jerk my mug away from him as if it might get its feelings hurt. “How dare you reduce my vision like that.”

Maybe it’s the absurdity of the whole date or his taunting words, but I give in.

“All right,” I say, dipping my brush into the black paint and sweeping it across the blush pink. “I’m committed now.”

Casper nods approvingly. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Ten minutes in and this painted possum is starting to go downhill. It starts to look more like an armadillo. After twenty minutes, it looks more like an anteater. And somewhere after that I took a wrong turn and created what can only be described as if your sleep paralysis demon was a proboscis monkey.

I sit back and observe my mug. “Wow, this is . . . really bad.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” he mutters, still focused on his artwork.

“No, look.” I hold it up to him.

He flinches—the man physically startles. “Oh my God.” His eyes grow wide. “What did you do to it?”

“It’s supposed to be Debra!” I argue defensively. “It . . . kinda got away from me.”

“I said felonies were only for special occasions, Duchess.”

I feign a gasp. “Rude! She’s just . . . abstract.”

“That’s not what abstract means. If Debra looked like that, we would have to put her down.”

“Hey! Be kind to my Debra mug.” I hold it away from him again.

“Okay, seriously, let me see it.” He gestures for me to hand it over but has to gently pry it from my fingers. He rotates it 360 degrees, inspecting all sides. “You know what . . . I like it.”

I cross my arms. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he says, fighting a subtle smile that threatens the corner of his mouth like it’s dying to be set free.

“You absolutely are.”