Justin exited the redbrick apartment building in the East Village, stopped on the stoop and smiled as he looked around. Pride flags hung from balconies and in windows, and across the street, two men were kissing in front of a café.

It made him feel at home, although he'd rather be on Liberty Avenue. His druthers aside, if he was going to be in Manhattan for who knew how long, he was determined to make the most of his time here. He had clear goals - sell some paintings, find an agent, get established - and then he'd be able to convince Brian to see sense.

He didn't have to be in New York City to be a success; he could paint anywhere - like Pittsburgh. He'd make that happen. Somehow.

In the meantime, not only did he want to get started painting, he also wanted to check out the sights, in particular the clubs and gay hangouts. After Justin's ridiculous plan to make it big as a seventeen-year-old go-go boy in New York, Vic had regaled him with stories of the best places, so he knew where to go.

He'd follow in the older man's footsteps. Kind of like when he'd used Vic's card to get into Babylon, he thought, laughing. The Tunnel had closed down, but he wished he'd thought of asking Deb or Rodney for Vic's membership cards to long-running establishments like the g Lounge, B Bar and Pyramid Club. 

Confident in his appearance nowadays - he was no troll as Daphne had once noted - Justin doubted, despite his youthful looks, that he'd be carded. Or charged an entrance fee. Decked out in club wear and looking fuckin' hot, he'd be waved right in, bypassing lines of hopeful fags.

So he'd go to the clubs for Vic - the tribute he suspected Vic would like best; for Brian - his lover would be expecting tales of his exploits; and for himself. Not only would he need to get his rocks off between rare visits to see Brian, he was no longer married to the idea of a monogamous relationship. 

Steamy phone sex would be another benefit. Justin hoped that if he bombarded Brian with tales of the Village scene he could entice his partner into visiting him, even if it would be months before he actually showed up. As demonstrated by last night's phone call, Brian already missed him, but the man was nothing if not stubborn. Phone sex with blow-by-blow recitations of Justin's future conquests should help things along though.

He'd started the campaign to lure Brian to New York before he left the Burgh, babbling on about all the famous gay clubs and bars. The only one he'd omitted was the Cock; he wanted to check it out and then go there with Brian. The Cock had opened just before Vic got sick, so he'd never been, but it was supposed to be modeled after the best cruising spots from the eighties, featuring hotties in skimpy outfits and no-holds-barred fucking.

The envy on Brian's face, listening to him wax enthusiastic about the other clubs, had been plain to see, no matter how much he tried to hide it. In fact, Justin was pretty sure his eager descriptions of Manhattan's gay hotspots had been the impetus for Brian's most recent ‘conversation' with Vic, only a few days before Justin left for the Big Apple.

The first time he'd overheard one of the one-sided conversations, awakening in the middle of the night, he'd thought Brian was having a nightmare. He'd soon nixed that idea though. His slumbering lover hadn't broken out in a sweat, started flailing about or moaned, ‘Jus, no, Justin!' in the desperate, eerie tone he used when caught in the grip of a nightmare.

Instead, a sly smile on his face, he'd mumbled something like, ‘Best one, huh?' in a teasing tone, followed by, ‘You sure about that, you old lech?' The only person Justin had ever heard Brian call a lecher was Vic and only to the older man's face - when he was having a particularly bad day. It had pepped Vic up and always got him to produce his best imitation of a leer.

A few months after that first time, Justin had again awakened to Brian talking in his sleep, his supposition that he was conversing with Vic confirmed when Brian addressed the deceased man by name. 

Although he couldn't remember everything Brian had said during that chat with Vic, he did recall his lover protesting, ‘No way, Vic. I'm not into drag.' A few beats later, apparently in response to a comment from dream Vic, he'd added, ‘Neither is Jus.'

He giggled, remembering Michael's get-up at Justin's first Pride: he'd done a double-take, not recognizing Michael for a couple of beats. It might've taken him even longer to place the man if Michael hadn't clumsily tottered over to Debbie and clasped his mother's arm in an effort to stay upright.

The funniest of all had been when Michael, uncostumed, arrived at Woody's later in the day. A couple of guys lost in the crowd behind Justin had commented how they didn't know him at first, with one of them stating he looked better as a woman. He hadn't really thought about it until that moment, but the dude was right.

Justin had started giggling hysterically and had trouble stopping even when Brian sidled over to him and asked what his problem was. He'd never told Brian what he was laughing about.

Now, on the stoop outside the East Village brownstone, another giggle escaped as Justin thought about asking Brian for his opinion: Did Michael make a better man or woman?

As if to punctuate his question, two drag queens in colorful outfits and matching dos sauntered by arm-in-arm, deftly picking their way along the snow-frosted sidewalk in high-heeled platform shoes. Like Michael at that long ago Pride, their makeup was impeccable, but unlike Michael, they had no trouble walking in heels.

The queens were followed by a guy in chaps, cheeks hanging out, apparently unfazed by the icy air on his buttocks.

Granted, there was sun filtering through the clouds, but that didn't mean it was warm, not with snowflakes drifting down and a breeze sending icy fingers dancing across Justin's skin. He gratefully clutched the navy blue coat that he'd found in his suitcase closer to his body, the wattage of his smile increasing. 

Brian might've babbled a whole lot of ‘only time' nonsense, stubbornly refusing to listen to his counterarguments, but he clearly wasn't done taking care of Justin. First Justin had discovered the coat in the depths of his luggage. And then a little later in the day, there was a phone call to make sure he'd arrived in New York in one piece.

"You so love me," Justin hadn't been able to keep from crowing, his smile almost as wide as the first time he'd made that boast.

Most telling of all, Brian's muttered "Twat" hadn't contradicted him. 

Flipping up the collar of his coat, Justin tucked his chin into yet another proof of how much his lover cared - a soft white silk scarf. 

He'd been unnerved to discover it when he unfolded the coat; it had made him flash back to the rust-stained scarf Brian wore around beneath his clothes for months. But then Brian had called and threatened never to fuck him again if he got anything on the Armani scarf. No greasy food smudges. No paint. No grass stains.

The thinly disguised love behind the warning had stopped him from quibbling, the message that Brian wanted to protect him, even from something minor like a chill, coming through loud and clear. 

Only Brian would express himself via designer wear, Justin thought, chuckling as he finally stepped off the stoop and onto the sidewalk. He then paused, wondering which way to go.

Normally, he'd be happy just to wander around, but the wind was starting to pick up and the snow to thicken - not the best time for exploring. Once he had what he needed, he'd park himself in a café and settle in for some people-watching.

A short time ago, as he was getting ready to set out, he'd asked Jon, Daphne's friend from whom he was subletting couch space, where to find the nearest art supply store. The dude hadn't had a clue, snickering and proclaiming that he didn't have an artistic bone in his body. Then, giving the blonde woman he was escorting out of the apartment a lewd wink, he'd added, "Except where it counts."

"Geez, you're such a dick," the blonde had chastised Jon, rolling her eyes. Her irritation hadn't prevented her from swapping spit with Jon for a good five minutes however, so maybe he did have something to brag about as well as a flair for dramatics.

Halfway out the door she'd halted, ignoring Jon's wandering fingers and told Justin there was an art shop close by. She'd waved a hand in a vaguely northerly direction before turning around and pointing south.

"Uh, sorry," she'd apologized, her brow furrowed. "I have a horrible sense of direction." She'd held up her left hand, thumb and forefinger stretched out to form an L and confessed, "Can't tell left from right without my hand."

"That's my girl," observed Jon fondly. "Can't find her way out of a paper bag."

Justin had been feeling sorry for the girl, but then she'd let out an inane, high-pitched titter, murmuring, "That's why I have you, lamb chop."

Geez, she gave blonds a bad name.

Shaking off thoughts of the nitwit, Justin took a breath of fresh, snow-laden air - while prudently keeping his nose buried in his scarf. With no idea of which way to go to find the art store, Justin randomly turned right.

‘Stove' seemed liked an odd name for an art shop, but the blonde had sworn it was called that. Maybe they focused on ceramics? 

Half a block from the brownstone, a tall, good-looking redhead gave him the eye as he came out of a corner grocery. Justin thought about asking him for directions but decided against it. He didn't want to look like a rube.

The bigger reason, he privately admitted to himself as he hurried past the redhead, his ears burning, was the memory of Brian once asking, ‘What are you, a girl?' when they couldn't find the place they were supposed to meet a prospective trick.

He'd rather quarter the East Village until he found the art shop, if that was what it took. 

Three blocks from his temporary digs, it seemed increasingly likely he'd have to do that. He settled on continuing for one more block; the blonde girlfriend's sense of distance was probably as bad as her sense of direction. But as he reached the next corner and looked across the street, he realized he'd lucked out and stumbled on the art store on his first try.

A colorful family portrait done in an expressionistic style was set up on an easel in the window, and arranged on a drop cloth beneath the painting were items an artist would need to create the portrait: a canvas, a palette, brushes, paints and varnish. He also saw other essentials: a cup for water, gesso, a palette knife, scraping tools, charcoal and pencil, a roll of paper towels and soap to clean up with.

There was even an apron, which made him laugh. Brian would doubtless consider that more important than the rest - never mind that an apron was something Justin had never worn outside the Liberty Diner.

Smiling at his lover's quirks - who but Brian would think he should wear an apron over already paint-splattered work clothes? - Justin looked around for the name of the shop. He didn't see ‘Stove' engraved on the glass above the window display, but his eyes tracked over to the front entrance, where a carved wooden sign with a kiln, a loom and an easel jutted out from the building and swayed in the breeze.

The name of the shop was stenciled in colorful hues to the left of the art tools: ArTrove.

Well, Justin thought, chuckling, the airhead blonde had gotten part of it right. It did end in ‘ove' and there was a ‘t' in the name.

Justin carefully made his way across the street, skirting an icy patch in the pavement and making his way around the front end of a limo parked directly outside of ArTrove. Something sharp stung Justin's cheek at the same moment that a ping came from the windshield of the town car, causing the chauffeur to look up before returning to his newspaper.

The guy must be glad to be comfortably ensconced in the plush, warm automobile, Justin reckoned, hastening across the sidewalk and pushing open the door to the supply store. He made it in the nick of time, hail dancing across the limo and the sidewalk behind him.

A bell above Justin jingled merrily in welcome and pleasant warmth enveloped him. It was almost like entering the diner - but not overheated from a press of bodies and sans the aromas of frying food and the din from a crowd of customers vying for attention.

In fact, ArTrove was so quiet, he could've heard a pin drop. The weather must be keeping customers home, Justin reckoned as he made his way down one of the aisles.

The shelves on both sides of the aisle were filled with all kinds of paints, the containers varying in size from small tubes to half-gallon cans. While he was looking for studio space, Justin hoped to work out an arrangement with Jon as to when he could paint in the apartment. Then he'd come back; ArTrove looked like it carried every hue he could possibly want. Until he had space however, pencils, not paint, were what he needed. 

He'd meant to pack his new watercolor pencils and a couple of extra sketch pads in his suitcase, but in the flurry of getting ready to leave, they ended up in storage instead. He could only hope they were in one of the boxes Brian had promised to ship to him once he was more settled and not in with the goods stacked behind the boxes of Brian's rarely accessed belongings.

A smile flitted across his face as he thought about Brian's storage space. The manner in which Brian had gone about organizing Justin's stuff and fitting it in with his own had been utterly matter-of-fact. Even though they were going to be living hundreds of miles apart, Brian apparently saw nothing unusual about having their stuff mingled together and didn't comment on it, so Justin had been careful to act as though it was perfectly normal. He'd taken it as a positive sign though that the ‘never again' part of Brian's ‘only time' speech might not mean all that much.

The tension and worry he'd felt while packing up his possessions finally eased, Justin remembering that it was Brian's actions, more than what he said, that counted.

He'd been so relieved at that realization that he must've lost his focus on what he was putting in his suitcase. The upshot was that while he did have a sketchbook with him, it was an old one that didn't have any free pages. He'd intended to bring it with him - some of his favorite drawings of Brian and the rest of the family were captured inside - but he needed something for new sketches.

At the end of the paint aisle, Justin discovered an end cap with sketches mounted on mattes as well as pencils and charcoals. He figured the exhibit must be meant to encourage beginners since the designs were fairly basic. He liked the sketches though; they showed what could be achieved with a minimum of pencil strokes.

Justin was just making his way around the end cap to check out the next aisle when he heard someone state with asperity, "I don't know why you can't tell me the difference between azure blue and ultramarine blue, young man. Why do you have two different pencils if they're the same color?"

An older woman with snowy white hair, dressed in what Justin recognized as a designer pantsuit - Mel had worn almost the exact same thing not long ago - was holding up two pencils, her brow furrowed in exasperation.

The sales clerk, whose back was to Justin, shrugged in apparent disinterest and replied laconically, "'Cause people like to have choices."

His tone, thought Justin in disgust, implied that there was no difference. 

"If I get these pencils, I want to be able to explain the difference to my granddaughter. She's taking an art appreciation class and is supposed to prepare a project utilizing only shades of blue. I had to convince her to let me come here in her stead. I don't want her to regret that decision, or for her to think her grandmother's dotty when she comes back with two indiscernible shades of blue." The elderly woman blew out a frustrated sigh. "Isn't there anyone here who can help me?"

The clerk shrugged again.

Geez, Justin wondered, who'd leave an uninterested, clueless cretin like this in charge of their store? His opinion of the shop, which until now had been positive, plummeted. ArTrove was a cool, artsy name; the window display he'd seen was enticing; and they had every color of paint an artist could desire. If this guy exemplified the caliber of their staff however-

Justin cut the thought off. That didn't make sense, not for a store that was, like, an artist's wet dream. ArTrove must be short-staffed or something; a nasty flu was going around, so the regular salespeople could be out sick.

They'd really scraped the bottom of the barrel with this guy though. To an untutored eye, like the customer's, it was understandable that the colors might seem indistinguishable. But even if the clerk was fucking colorblind and couldn't perceive the difference, he should be able to explain it, or at the very least, whip out a color wheel and show the variations in the shades.

Fed up, Justin offered, "I can help," sidling past the shop assistant.

"Who the-" the guy bit out before catching himself and stopping.

Justin gave the idiot his back and looked at the elderly woman. She reminded him a little of his maternal grandmother: same perfectly coiffed, snow-white hair, regal bearing and a patrician nose.

With a friendly smile, Justin glanced at the pencils in the woman's hand. "They do look almost identical," he observed. "But if you think of ultramarine in conjunction with water and azure with sky, it might help your granddaughter to distinguish them. Ultramarine adds depth to seas and lakes, while azure is just the right shade for the sky on a clear day."

The furrow etched across the woman's brow smoothed out, and she smiled at Justin. "Oh, that will be easy for Shelly to understand."

Justin scanned the shelves. "There should be a color wheel here somewhere. That would provide a truer representation of the two shades of blue than on the barrels of those pencils." He cast a disparaging glance at the pencils, thinking the manufacturer must have done a poor dye job with that lot.

"You don't work here?" the grandmother asked, her surprise evident. 

The clerk behind Justin snorted derisively.

Neither he nor the woman paid him any heed.

"I thought you must have just come back from a break." The customer let out a tinkling laugh. "Although surely you'd have a hot drink in hand in that case, to help stave off the cold."

"My next stop is going to be a café or a diner," Justin confessed. "Someplace I can get coffee and something hot to eat." His stomach let out a growl, punctuating his need for food.

The grandmother laughed again. "Could you help me decide what to get first? I want to buy the right thing for Shelly."

"Sure," Justin readily agreed. He perused the shop's offerings. "Maybe some watercolor pencils?" he suggested. "You can either use them like regular pencils or dip them in water for a ‘paint wash' effect."

"Whatever would help my granddaughter with her project."

"Derwent is good if you'd like something mid-priced." Justin frowned as he looked at Derwent's set of blue pencils. "They don't have as great a range of hues as some of the other brands though."

The woman waved a dismissive hand, the overhead lights scintillating off the gem-encrusted band on her ring finger. "Don't worry about the cost. I just want the best for Shelly."

It was like he was shopping with Brian, mused Justin ruefully. "Um, Staedtler Karat Aquarell is supposed to be the best." He pointed at a boxed set of their blue pencils.

"You haven't used them?" she asked a trifle sharply.

"No." Justin shook his head. "They're out of my price range."

"Is there a brand you've used that you'd recommend?"

Justin picked up a set of Caran D'ache pencils. "I really like these for detail work, and the colors hold up well." He saw no reason to mention that he'd never have tried those either if Brian hadn't presented him with a boxed set of the ridiculously expensive pencils after Justin agreed to marry him. Unsurprisingly, Brian had refused to return them when they called things off.

Shaking off thoughts of the wedding that wasn't, he observed, "You could get your granddaughter - Shelly?"

The woman nodded in confirmation.

"Um, you could get Shelly a boxed set that includes other colors, in case she wants something to offset or complement the blues." Justin paused and scratched the back of his neck with a gloved hand. "It'd be overkill for just one project though."

"Oh." She flicked her hand dismissively a second time. "I expect they'll get plenty of use. Shelly used to draw all the time, until her dolt of a boyfriend disparaged her efforts and convinced her she should give it up." The woman's lips turned down. "Nothing her parents or I said made any difference. She stuck with the bastard-" 

Justin smiled to himself at the casual but clipped, very WASPy way she'd said that.

"-for four years. It wasn't until she caught him cheating with one of her friends - a truly talentless, wannabe artist - that she gave him the heave-ho. Now, finally, a year after getting rid of him, Shelly's again showing an interest in art. I intend to do everything I can to encourage her."

She paused, glancing at the array of deluxe watercolor pencil sets before turning piercing gray eyes on Justin. "Whatever you'd get for yourself is what I'll buy for Shelly."

Justin pondered for a couple of beats. Even though the pencils weren't for him, it was tempting to get the Staedtler - what artist wouldn't like to try them? - but then he reached for the Caran D'ache pencils. He knew exactly how good those were.

He huffed a little as he hefted the fairly heavy wooden box, thinking absently that he needed to hit the gym.

"This way," came an officious voice from behind him.

Justin turned around a little awkwardly to find that the clerk was now all smiles. He looked right past Justin at the elderly customer. "I can ring that up for you."

He of course didn't offer to carry the box, instead bustling ahead of them as he led the way to the register.

"Asshole," muttered Justin.

"Now, now." 

Justin flushed. He hadn't meant to be overheard.

The granny's gray eyes twinkled at him. "He reminds me of Shelly's ex, so ‘bastard' is the correct appellation, I believe."

Justin burst out laughing.

A few feet in front of them, the ArTrove clerk scurried around the counter, patently eager to reach the cash register, unaware that they were mocking him. Not that he would have cared, Justin guessed, as long as he could make a tidy commission off this sale. Which had nothing to do with his own efforts, he couldn't help musing sourly.

Suddenly, a door behind the counter opened, and another staff member stepped through, beating the deadbeat salesman to the till.

He bleated incoherently in protest, but the newcomer, a brunette who appeared to be in her early forties, gave him a dark look. 

"Not now, Bryce," the woman, who must be a manager, ordered curtly.

Closing his trap, Bryce slunk through the door, evidently not wanting to contest matters.

Justin was a little surprised that he gave up on claiming credit for the sale so easily. Even if staff didn't earn a commission, a sale of this size was bound to earn recognition from his superiors.

The two women exchanged smiles and started chatting away, almost as if they knew each other, but Justin didn't pay attention to what they were saying. He was too busy looking longingly at the wooden box with the Caran D'ache watercolor pencils. 

Justin knew if he asked, Brian would locate the - still unused - set in storage and ship it to him, but he didn't want to look like an idiot for forgetting them or dredge up bad memories for Brian. They'd agreed that calling off the wedding was the right decision, but it was also a sore point. His brow furrowing, Justin second-guessed himself for the umpteenth time. It had been the best thing for both of them, right?

"Could I impose on you one more time, young man?"

The half-heard question penetrated his mental fog. Blinking, Justin looked at the chicly groomed grandmother. "Uh, yeah," he answered, uncertain what he was agreeing to.

"Don't worry," the woman teased. "It's nothing too onerous. I was just hoping you could carry these out to the car for me."

"Sure," Justin agreed. A discreet glance at her mid-heeled pumps assured him they wouldn't be going very far; she wouldn't want to damage her shoes or drag the hem of her trousers through the icy slush on the sidewalks.

"Come back in afterward," the brunette ArTrove manager urged with a friendly smile. "I'll be happy to help you find whatever you need."

"Just some pencils and a sketchbook," Justin replied, a little abashed for no good reason about his meager purchase.

The brunette nodded. "When it comes down to it, all you need to draw a picture is a pencil and a piece of paper."

"Or a ballpoint pen and a paper napkin," said Justin, grinning wryly as he recalled his first try at sketching a superhero.

"Or chalk and a clear patch of sidewalk," the woman added, starting to laugh. "Just something to draw with and a surface to draw on."

"I'll be right back for both of those." Justin picked up the wooden box of watercolor pencils and followed the elderly woman. 

He was right; they didn't go far, just to the limo parked outside the front door.

Carefully balancing the box on one arm, Justin reached for the handle of the back door.

The driver looked up from his newspaper, his eyes going past Justin to the white-haired grandmother. "Sorry, ma'am," he apologized, laying the paper on the seat next to him. "I'll be right there to help-"

"Stay put," she interrupted testily. "I'm perfectly capable of getting into a car on my own."

The woman slid into the back seat, moving over until she was behind the driver. "Just set the box there, please," she requested, pointing at the empty seat beside her.

Justin complied, making sure it was nestled securely and wouldn't slide around.

"Thank you," she said warmly. "You're a very well-brought-up young man."

Justin grinned and made a mental note to relay that to his mother. She'd be pleased to hear that her efforts had borne fruit.

As he went to shut the door, she winked at him and commented, "I foresee good things for you. Sunny skies ahead - you might even say ‘azure' ones."

That was odd, thought Justin, shutting the door firmly. He stared after the departing car for a few beats, snowflakes landing on his eyelashes and cheeks. Then, shrugging off the strange comment, he turned back to ArTrove and almost ran into the unfriendly clerk.

"Fuckin' plant," he cursed, shouldering Justin out of the way and slouching off down the sidewalk, his coat collar up around his ears.

Justin blinked in confusion, wondering if he'd entered an alternate dimension. Everyone was acting really weird.

The clerk let out an inarticulate growl when he hit an icy patch, his feet almost going out from under him. He windmilled his arms frantically, bitching, "Fucking New York weather."

Alright. He probably wasn't in The Twilight Zone after all. Complaining about the weather was as normal as it got.

Stepping back inside the art shop, he headed for the aisle he now knew contained the pencils, but he was waylaid by a halloo from the manager.

He made his way to the checkout counter and raised his eyebrows questioningly. 

The brunette pushed a stack of three sketch pads and a set of Derwent pencils over to him. "These are for you. No charge."

Before Justin could ask why she was giving him the items for free, a wry tilt to her mouth, she explained, "You did me a favor. I'd set up what you walked into with Angela, but with your help, it was far more effective."

Huh? Justin hoped he didn't look as stupid as he felt.

"I needed a good reason to get rid of Bryce."

It dawned on Justin that she might've just fired the clerk with the bad attitude.

"Laziness, chronic lateness and an attitude that could be excused as typical of a New Yorker weren't enough. Not when he's the owner's nephew. The one thing the boss won't tolerate however," she noted with relish, "is someone who doesn't know the products and can't - or won't - answer customers' questions. We're all expected to have a basic knowledge of the products we sell and have expertise in at least one type of art."

Justin nodded. That made sense.

"I'm crap at weaving, but I understand the process and I can talk to customers about yarn, looms and other products."

That was more than he could do, thought Justin, nodding again. His closest acquaintance with yarn was the wildly colored afghans Debbie would periodically crochet, and the sweater Daph had tried to knit for him - which ended up with a ton of dropped stitches and only one armhole.

"What I can do is sculpt. And Joseph is our expert weaver. Sculptor, weaver, painter or some other artist, every single one of us knows colors - except, that is, for Bryce. He supposedly paints, although I've never seen one of his pictures, and he spouts nonsense when he has to help a customer."

A vaguely guilty but also self-satisfied expression flitted across her face. "I needed more than just my say-so or griping from the other staff to prove that, especially since one of us has always been around to help him with customers." 

She shrugged. "So, with Angela Covington's help, I set up a small ‘sting' operation."

Justin didn't hear anything after ‘Covington.' By now, he'd figured out that ‘Angela' was the first name of the elderly woman he'd helped, but that hadn't meant anything. Paired with her last name though, it left him utterly mortified. Adrienne Bennett had even explained how Angela's work influenced her own and pointed out how her technique was evident in the picture Adrienne had gifted him. 

Justin wished he could sink through the floor and disappear. He'd gone and explained the difference between two shades of blue to an internationally renowned artist.

An "Are you okay?" penetrated his embarrassment, and from the concerned way the brunette was looking at him, he got the feeling it wasn't the first time she'd asked that question.

"Uh, Angela Covington," Justin croaked, unable to get anything else out.

The manager's laugh was laced with satisfaction. "Angela plays the doting, slightly dim grandmother really well, doesn't she?"

"I- blues." Justin tried again, the words finally emerging coherently. "I described the difference between two shades of blue. To Angela Covington."

Her brown eyes twinkling, the brunette remarked, "Angela said it was one of the most concise, easy-to-comprehend distinctions she's heard. Better than from any of the MFA students she occasionally tutors."

She had? Justin's brow crinkled in puzzlement.

The fortyish woman chuckled. "You must've really ‘checked out' while I was checking Angela out," she teased. 

Justin smiled weakly at her sally. It was a little funny, but it would be funnier if he wasn't the butt of the joke.

"Angela was practically gushing about how helpful and knowledgeable you were."

Bemused, Justin shook his head. "It must have been the watercolor pencils that made me sound that way. I was just kicking myself for forgetting to pack mine."

As he spoke, he had a flash of himself in the loft - setting the box of pencils right next to the suitcase he had open on the bed. Weird. He didn't remember putting the box in the suitcase, but what had he-

"Ah." The woman's tone held a wealth of understanding, while she appeared to study him with even more interest than before. "Did you move here recently?" she guessed.

"Uh, yeah. Yesterday." Justin scuffed a sneaker against the floor and manfully avoided saying he'd rather be in Pittsburgh.

"I know the Derwent pencils aren't quite the same caliber as the D'ache, but they should help tide you over?"

"Oh, yeah. They're great, thanks." He hadn't meant to seem unappreciative. "I mainly paint, but until I find studio space..." Justin trailed off, shrugging.

She blinked at him, her mouth hanging open a little before she snapped it shut. "I'm sorry," she apologized, shaking her head and laughing ruefully. "I assumed you were a university student - a fresh-" She abruptly stopped speaking, red tinting her cheekbones.

At least she didn't think he was a high school freshman. She wouldn't have been the first one to make that mistake. Maybe his new coat made him look older? Justin smiled, blissfully unaware that he now looked even younger than before.

"I'm Susan Lopez," the woman belatedly introduced herself, outstretching her hand. "I should have led with that, huh?" she laughingly castigated herself.

"Justin Taylor." Justin shook her calloused hand firmly.

Susan's eyes narrowed in thought. "Wait," she said after a moment. "The Justin Taylor who was written up in Artforum?"

"Um." Justin was too nonplussed to say more. 

"Oh, that's rich." Her eyes lit up with glee. "You got Bryce's goat twice, and he doesn't even know it."

"Huh?" Justin blurted. 

"Bryce was so incredibly jealous of you," Susan expounded. "He couldn't stop talking about ‘Justin Taylor, the nobody from the Pitts,'" she sneered in a voice that sounded remarkably like Bryce's - based on the little he'd actually heard the erstwhile sales clerk say.

Susan scoffed, "You'd think he knew Simon Caswell personally. ‘How could Simon peg him as ‘the next Warhol'?" she whined, mimicking Bryce's outrage.

Justin paled at hearing Simon's name and ‘peg' in association with him. "Caswell's a cu-" came his knee-jerk reaction, only stopping himself at the last moment. He wasn't talking to Lindsay; he didn't really know anything about the ArTrove manager and shouldn't be so disparaging about a well-known art critic.

"Cunt?" Susan said for him, raising her eyebrows.

Justin shrugged.

"Mmm, I happen to agree with you," Susan observed, "but he's an influential cunt, so be careful who you say that to."

She sounded just like Lindsay, thought Justin, resentment again coursing through him as he thought about the way the blonde had manipulated Brian - and him. Linds might have done it with the best of intentions, but the results were hard to swallow.

Justin sighed - as much about Lindsay as Simon. "I know I should be grateful to Caswell for getting my name out there, but-" He grimaced in disgust.

"Well, I'm grateful that Cuntwell-"

She waggled her eyebrows at Justin, making him laugh. He obviously wasn't the only one to come up with that alteration of Caswell's name.

"-got you to New York, and indirectly, into my shop. If not for that, I might still be stuck with Bryce."

Justin doubted that. The whole thing must've been captured on video, and he couldn't imagine the store owner would allow his nephew to remain on staff after viewing it.

"I am short a retail clerk now," Susan noted. "I could use someone who actually knows his stuff." She examined Justin speculatively. "You interested?"

That brought Justin up short. He'd been planning on getting a job at a local diner or restaurant. He had no retail experience, and except for his years as a busboy cum waiter, he didn't have much of a résumé. 

In fact, almost everything else that he could put on his CV would probably look like a quitter's record: an aborted internship at Vangard; a stint as an assistant art director for Rage, the movie - also aborted; and an abandoned degree at PIFA. 

He was proud of the comic he and Michael had created together, but it had been written for a niche market and they'd only produced a handful of issues. Justin didn't regret the focus for the final edition, but he did regret the way he'd sprung it on Brian. He should've had the common decency to tell Brian beforehand about Rage and JT getting hitched, instead of surprising him at Michael and Ben's housewarming party. Brian never would've done that to him, he'd realized much too late. 

The one positive result of the whole thing was that he'd put his foot down and told Michael there wouldn't be any more editions of the comic. His disposable income would take a hit, but he didn't care. He refused to put Brian on the spot ever again.

Surprisingly, Michael hadn't quibbled about his decision. Not yet anyhow. He must've gotten what he wanted out of the experience - besides the defeat of Proposition 14.

Susan scattered his thoughts, stating more than asking, "You already have a job lined up?"

Startled by her evident disappointment, Justin replied, "Huh? No. I just, uh, don't have any experience in retail." 

"Have you used a cash register?"

"Uh, yeah." Not just the one at the Liberty Diner either. He'd rung up purchases at Red Cape a few times. However both of those registers were so old that they looked like dinosaurs compared to the sleek machine on the counter. "Not as fancy as what you have though."

The manager shrugged. "This one does all the work for you; you just have to know which buttons to press. If Bryce could figure it out, I'm sure you won't have any problems." She paused for a moment before challenging, "Any other objections?"

This had to be the strangest job interview ever, if that was what it was. Justin's closest encounter with an interview was for the Vangard internship, and that had been largely pro forma.

"I don't know anything about sculpting - never mind weaving!" he spluttered. He wasn't sure why he wasn't grabbing the job offer with both hands, except that it was so unexpected - and maybe a little intimidating. He'd never worked in a shop before.

"We don't expect you to weave a blanket or throw a pot. Not in the first week anyway," Susan deadpanned.

Justin countered, "You have to give me at least a month."

Susan chuckled and held out her hand. "Deal."