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She spent two hours painting me as I sat for two hours in mostly the same position but reading the first hour writing the second.
She painted with oils on a canvas had, what was meant to be money-making erotic art which had failed to sell and that she’d bought on the cheap.
‘You should have a camera filming you,’ she said, when she found out what I did for a living during a discussion on the importance of arriving on time.
I told her what had happened…
‘What time’s it open?’ said the woman closest me of the two with children in pushchairs.
‘Eleven,’ I said.
‘It’s eleven now,’ she said, ‘and there’s no one in there.’
‘They should be along in a minute,’ with little faith it being true.
‘We’ll come back later,’ said her friend. ‘Shall we?’
They left toward town.
‘Wonder if they’ll be back?’ I said.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But that’s what happens when you say you’ll be somewhere at a certain time and then you’re not.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you get given what you gave.’