Hume put down his brush. It wasn't working. He could put paint to canvas, but it was just that. Paint on canvas. It wasn't art.

Not today. He stood in his studio and then started putting his paints away. As he did so, he thought

about his choices, the ones that led him here, choosing his art over family, friends, love.

His eyes went to the letters by the door from his sister. He loved his art, but what about

on nights like tonight when art abandoned him, when no amount of work would flow from the tip

of his brush.

You can't force it, he consoled himself.

Once all his paints were away, he went down to the pub, but since it was Christmas Eve,

he could hardly find a seat.

He was alone, even in a bustling restaurant.

He was cold with a fire and warmth all around him. After eating alone, tucked in the dismal corner with the moving shadows that were absolutely rats, Hume

found his way back up to his studio. He was restless. He drank too much to sit down with the

book, and not enough to go to bed. It was too cold for a walk.

Then he snapped his fingers, perfect. The frames. He went by a shop just over in Soho last week

and bought a few frames. He never cared much for what was on them. Either it was kitsy, sentimental

tripe, or it was, he looked at one of the frames.

Yikes.

It was a publican, a heavy set graying man, and it was detailed.

Every wrinkle, every vein, every knob in his arthritic hand.

It was like when you see your nose in one of those curved mirrors or someone takes a way too high

resolution photo of you, whoever painted this pub owner either loved him enough to accurately

recreate every detail of the man's face, or absolutely hated him enough to accurately recreate

...