John

She stood in front of the painting. It was black, it was a triangle, and she thought it made no sense at all.

“Five thousand dollars.”

She turned around.

There stood a man with red hair. He had a beard, he had an old book in the crook in his arm, and his eyes were blue. So blue they looked cruel.

He laughed.

“You looked stunned,” he spoke.

“I'm sorry. Do I know you?”

He shook his head and pointed to the card next to the painting that had written the artist's name and the title of the painting.

“That's me,” he said.

Her cheeks turned red, and she was already a little drunk because her best friend had made her have half a bottle of red wine out of celebration because she was pregnant and getting married at the same time.

“You must be proud.”

“No. No, I hate this painting. It's pretentious. I painted it to have my name placed along these other ... pretentious ... people. They get noticed. They get money. They don't have to eat stale bread and old milk.”

She laughed. It was an embarrassing laugh. A laugh that didn't know what it was suggesting.

He raised his eyebrows. His red, thick eyebrows, edged with white hairs and wrinkles.

He looked about sixty.