The first time Romy saw him, he was arguing with a gallery owner over the price of a sculpture made entirely of broken skateboards.
“I’m not saying it isn’t brilliant,” he was saying, hands flying. “I’m saying you’re trying to sell grief like it’s interior decor.”
Romy was standing behind him, waiting to inquire about studio space. She laughed—softly, unintentionally.
He turned.
They locked eyes.
And that was it.
Not fireworks.
Not slow-motion movie magic.
Just recognition.
Like her soul sat up and said, Oh. You.
His name was Ezra.
He taught high school art in Queens, painted on weekends, and made terrible coffee. He read poetry aloud without embarrassment, collected cassette tapes, and asked her questions like, “What scares you lately?” or “What would you paint if no one ever s
