A story to eat scones by. A scone worthy story, in other words. One more glimpse into life on the side with our unreliable narrator.
Chapter 2.
It was ridiculous how nervous she was. It was only a class. A painting workshop. It wasn't as if she was entering a world unknown. She knew this world. Art school was only, what, fifteen years ago? Wrong tactic. Fifteen years is a lifetime ago. She shook it off, pushed the door open with her left hip and met the familiar aromatics of turpentine and linseed oil, the clatter of wooden easels and scrape of chipped metal stools as painters staked out their territory.
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