A torn couch. Snake plant in the corner.  Blinds closed. The air-conditioner hums loudly. Ceiling fan has dust on it.

There’s a painting on the floor. A still life of fruit in a bowl. A bottle of wine by its side. He wonders which wall to hang it on.

Hammer and nail in hand, he starts making holes in the drywall.  Looking for a stud. He hammers and hangs the picture facing the sun.

He steps back and looks. Begins talking to himself while jazz plays on a public radio station.

This is what you wanted, he whispers. Alone. All by yourself.  Away from the normal American dream. The wife, children, swingsets, slides, station wagons, dinner at five, all of this forfeited. Just to be alone.

The arts are a selfish business, he told her. It calls for the artist’s focus on a constant basis. Whether you’re a painter, a writer, or some actor, it all calls for abandonment of the good life. The comfortable ways of most. You want to make money? Sell insurance.

He takes the painting down. Hammers a nail into another wall. He is not satisfied. Maybe he never will be.