Crumbs fell to the concrete floor as she ate her breakfast while sitting on the stool in front of his unfinished painting. She knew Peter would have howled, as though the crumbs were acid and the floor his skin. Clara was perhaps not as careful as she should have been. As she could have been. Perhaps it was a mostly unconscious desire to wound Peter in his most private of parts. To hurt him, as he was hurting her. This was the only private part she still had access to. Peter should really have considered himself lucky. Or maybe her messiness meant nothing. Though, as a blob of strawberry jam hit the floor, she doubted it. Outside it was cloudy, muggy. Rain threatened, and would likely pour down before lunch. Even with its windows looking onto the Rivière Bella Bella, the studio was close and gloomy. But she sat there, taking in the canvas on the easel. It was very Peter. Very detailed, precise, controlled. Technically brilliant. It made the best of all the rules. This was no dog’s breakfast.
