1.7
On the days she wasn’t cleaning motel rooms she drove to Terry’s studio. After that first visit she left her sketchbook behind. Without it she was idle and listless. She watched Terry work. She sat on the end of a table and swung her legs. She flicked through his arty magazines until boredom drove her outside to wander about in the park and on the beach, kicking sand and collecting shells. Sometimes she stood at the waterline in awe of the heaving plain of sapphire, the crash and the quick suck of the waves. When she felt brave she dipped her toes in the spume.
At lunchtime she went down the street to the bakery for two meat pies. Terry loved meat pies. She didn’t. She slipped into the supermarket for fruit.
She’d become attached to her waif-like figure. She found her size empowerin
