The first canvas was covered with paint by now, just random streaks and splotches by the time she'd called it done. Now that she'd gotten a bit of a feel for the acrylics Katchoo had set it aside, replacing it on the easel with the fresh, larger one. That, of course, meant time for a break of another sort, so she paused, fished a cigarette and battered Bic from the inside pocket of her leather jacket, and sparked a flame; as she did, she caught sight of Cal and gave him the brief sort of nod she gave everyone these days.

There ought to be some kind of law of physics about smokers gravitating toward each other, or something.