Vincent van Gogh got his paint and he had no money either. Besides, it wasn't like they sold tubes of oil paint down at the corner store.

It was Monday morning, Fran still wasn't speaking to me, I still didn't have any money, and my mind was eager for relief. I headed for Santa Monica Boulevard, just to walk.

I have to say Santa Monica Boulevard is one of the ugliest streets in America, especially in August. It's hot, smoggy, and dirty. And even at 8:15 am the street people are up and begging. I hear myself say several times, "Sorry man, I don't have any money." They know I'm not lying because I don't rush by them with indifference. I move slowly, as if I'm interrogating them until they feel uncomfortable and skitter away. I don't like to be annoying and I wonder if that's just part of being an artist.

I continue on my walk. I see The Art Shack up ahead and I go in.

*****

I remove all the pictures from Fran's walls. Nothing to speak of so I'm sure she will not miss them. I put them in her closet. I figure she'll be home by eight so that gives me about ten hours. I'm excited. I washthe walls with light soapy water and let it dry while I unscrew the acrylic paint bottles. The smell of the paint ignites me. The feel of my brushes relieves me. I need this like a piano needs a player.

Indigo blue background and a full light gray moon will hang near the right side of the night wall with moon rays bellowing towards the left side and above the fireplace. White globes of energy and stars will scatter until we find one lone yellow star which travels into the next room.

The front door wall will keep the yellow star in flight, but it will be a cool east coast fall with a silver stream babbling over stones and rocks with colored leaves and shadows of bare trees. Our yellow star is a reflection, possibly a reflection of ourselves.

The entrance way to the kitchen is a desert. Like the Sahara, but where is our star? It's hard to find. Your eyes search the surface and then you realize after staring a long while the sand is actually a billion stars-stars that glitter and shine.

Then on our fourth wall our single yellow star bursts through with the energy of a Big Bang and we're in space. Strange planets, surreal atmospheres, and bizarre life forms inhabit this cement canvas, and yet our star looks the same, untouched, as if unable to change.

*****

I lay on the yellow bean bag chair, gazing at my walls, when I hear Fran come in. I don't look at her. Silence. She walks past me and into her room. I hear her unload her bags, go to the bathroom, and come back in.

She lays on the hard floor next to me. Silence again. We both lay there and live for a while. We listen to each other breath.

Finally, Fran speaks, "Where'd you get the paint?"

I don't answer her and she doesn't ask again.

The next morning I can tell we're still spiritually unmoved. Fran still doesn't speak to me, but I am relieved because I know Fran, deep down somewhere, still loves me.