Art is suggestive. Nobody knows that better than artists. We pour our hearts and souls into the canvas,

and wait for indecipherable markets to assess a value on the act of creation. I was lucky.

At the beginning of my career, my landscape sold quickly at auctions, establishing my name. After that, I experimented

with more abstract art, which never drew as much money, but was always my passion. But then,

several years ago, the art market plummeted. Suddenly, the portraits and landscapes that made the bulk

of my salary stopped selling. I don't know why. Tastes change, patrons change. Whatever the

reason, I had regressed back from successful to starving artist. Or at least I would have,

if not for Jeanette. We had been together since

our college years, and I proposed to her after my big break. Jeanette was always the more

practical one. She did her best to keep me grounded, giving me a reason not to spend all

hours of the day laboring in my studio. She worked at a local advertising agency in the

marketing department. Our careers were completely different, but we complimented each other,

until the day my art stopped selling. It didn't happen overnight, of course. We thought

I was just in a dry spell, and the markets

would one day turn in my favor again. But that never happened. Weeks turned into months,

and then years, fueling my insomnia and artistic block. On my third day, without even an hour

of sleep, she suggested joining her

firm. There was an opening in their advertisement department for graphic artists.

I'm not a fucking corporate sellout. The words had erupted from me like a volcano. I could

see them floating in the air around us as the wedge between us widened.

Immediately, I wished I could take it back.

Jeanette didn't say a word.

...