Pinkie Leroo. I frown. What kind of name is that?
I read her ad.
Name
Pinkie Leroo
Height
On point
Weight
Pretty face
Appearance
Below average
Hobbies
Playing with my twelve cats
Favorite pastime
Washing my hair
Profession
Taxidermies
Hair color
Pink – notice my name
（insert eye roll）
Eyes
Star struck
Skin
Pasty white
Below-average appearance . . . who says that?
Taxidermies . . . She stuffs dead animals for a living? Who is this freak? I’ve officially heard it all.
I can’t believe that people actually find dates on this website . . . How?
I get a vision of a pasty-white, pink-haired woman sitting on a couch with twelve cats, surrounded by stuffed animal corpses, and I cringe.
Good grief.
I read on.
I’m looking for someone who is only one color, but not one size. Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies. Present in sun, but not in rain.
Doing no harm, but feeling no pain.
Oh please. I roll my eyes.
I screenshot a picture of the profile that has been stolen from me and I send it to myself to deal with later.
It’s late, after dinner and drinks with the boys, and I’m back in my apartment, unwinding. The moonlight streams through the window and I sip my Scotch and sit back in my armchair.
I stare at the colors, the way they fade into the darkness. The beams of light that filter down from the heavens.
I do this often, sit here late at night and inhale the beauty of the painting on my wall.
I read the title:
Fated
What was she thinking about when she painted this?
A possession, a situation. What was fated?
A person?
I lift the glass to my lips and feel the heat as the amber fluid slides down my throat.
Harriet Boucher . . . the woman I am enamored with, a woman I don’t even know. As strange as it sounds, I feel like I do know her.
There’s an honesty to the brushstrokes, a deeper connection to her emotion, something I don’t feel from other paintings. It’s the weirdest thing and something that I can’t quite explain.
Looking at Harriet’s paintings is like looking into her soul.
Breathtaking.
I smile as I imagine the older woman; I know she’s beautiful, perhaps not physically any longer, but definitely spiritually . . . emotionally.
She’s French from what I’ve heard and only recently came onto the scene. Harriet Boucher is an artist that I follow, I’ve got all of her paintings apart from three. There are only thirty in circulation, she’s a recluse and nobody knows who she is—there are only whispers.
I only have interest in the finest, most unique pieces of art. I’ve spent millions of dollars and my collection is one of the best in the world.