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Susie Shircliff, 11 Feb '13

It was a simple lie. She asked what he did and he told her: Painter. It was her that assumed artist.

When she asked him, after the fourth or so beer, to draw her a picture on her wine stained napkin, he hesitated, but found courage in his last swig of Budweiser. He confidently explained: "I never draw. I just paint what I feel at the moment."

She found his answer beautiful. The evening rushed by ending with her pulling him into a spare bedroom and demanding: "Paint me."

While they were gathering their tossed clothes she playfully approached him, holding her bundle of clothing close to her naked body with one hand, and a black fountain pen in the other. "You forgot to sign your work."

He pulled the hair off her neck and around her bare shoulder. Underneath the blonde wispy curls he wrote: Steve.

It was the same thing he would write again on the edge of Mrs. Clark's newly painted 'Avid Apricot' craft room walls.