Chapter 9

“Davinder runs his own business.” Ingrid brushed a strand of his silky black hair off his forehead. “And he needs to be patient. He needs to know that these things take time.”

“Yes, and my mother needs to know that an artist needs to create or an artist loses his mind bit by bit.” He looked down at the plate of steamed vegetables Ingrid had set before him and picked up his fork. “But thank you,” he said before taking a small bite.

“You’re welcome.” She laughed and walked out of the kitchen. “Eat up.”

We were alone and I was sweating. I was glad for dark clothes. I wanted to talk to him. Wanted this moment to last. “How long have you had the business?” I asked, my voice not quite steady.

“A year next month.” He moved his fork around the plate, but he wasn’t eating. “She’s right, you know…I can’t expect to have the time I used to have to draw. Or even think, for that matter. Just think. Sit there and daydream. Or stir images around in my head.”