Start art. She would have told him. And told him again, and nice more after that, and then twice more before breakfast. He thought she said it because she cared, because she loved him and he lived her and this piece was needed to make him whole, a complete person, capable of that generosity; that vulnerability, that acceptance. Or so that’s the story he told himself. The one he had chosen to believe. That to the best of his knowledge could be true. the one that started after she left. The one that grew stronger, by the sound of the words that stuck to the sides of his mouth, annoying and immovable smear, pink gum sticky warm on cold concrete.