Chloe

Chloe stood behind Evan as he lifted his brush to continue painting, and placed her right hand on his shoulder. “Do you mind if I watch you paint for a second?” she asked. “No problem,” said Evan, feeling her hand next to his neck. Chloe was a misfit in Brooklyn, or maybe she was just a sign of the changing times. She was a bubbly blond, with tan skin and a curvy body that existed in a world of tall paper thin brunettes with constant frowns and peppered with tattoos. It seemed as if some wicked wizard had magically transported her from a beach in Florida to a cramped L train, commanded her off at the Lorimer stop, and left her to survive by her own devices, which of course she did, with little trouble. Chloe was smart, but didn't mind masking it with her appearance, in fact she used it to her advantage. If anyone assumed that she was dumb because of her tan and blond hair and playful persona, they would soon come to regret it. She didn't just look at things, she cataloged them. They were stored in a permanent record; some metaphysical database, to which only Chloe had access. This is undoubtably what she was doing as she watched Evan paint. He felt his art (and more importantly, the process that became his art) becoming part of that record, and felt incredibly privileged.

Evan loved Chloe. She was the closest thing to a sister that he ever had, and he always wanted to say something about it, but never wanted to risk sounding like a sap. It probably didn't matter, he figured she already knew. He had barely know David without her, and felt as if there was no real way that either of them existed without the other. Chloe removed her hand from Evan's shoulder and stepped back, to observe from a different angle. “I-”, Evan barely got his mouth open before Chloe cut him off. “No, keep going,” she said. Evan nodded his head slightly, and got back to work. The cold sun was burning, the row houses gaining form, the street straight and the perspective perfect. Evan looked at his sketch again and considered the blades of grass. He motioned to Chloe. “Do you like these blades of grass sticking up through the cracked concrete?” he asked her. She answered with a question of her own, “Will they be little dots of bright green?” “Yes, haha, the brightest things in the whole painting.” “That's exactly what I was thinking,” said Chloe, “You owe me a nice dinner when you sell this thing.” At that moment, David returned with the take-out Chinese food.