Flinch -- Warpaint /**/ 8. Flinch Quiola stepped back from her worktable, put two brushes in the mayonnaise jar beside a crumbled pack of Camels. April sunlight filtered through the window as she massaged her stiff neck. The room she’d made her studio was warm, and she was tired. She opened the window, then turned back to her watercolor, whose abstract lines of force and collection meant to convey an impression of her first canter on Splash, a paint and warmblood cross. She’d started dressage lessons at a nearby farm just after Christmas. Her cell phone rang. Sighing, she flexed her fingers and picked the phone up off the worktable. “Hello?” “It’s for sale! I can’t believe it!” said C.C. “The house! I went for a walk, starting jogging when I saw the realtor’s sign. If it suits me, I’m going to buy it. I’ve already called the realtor. We can see it tomorrow.” “Tomorrow? When?” C.C.
