Penelope sipped her drink and wondered whether to ask him to leave. She figured it was too late, they had already slept together, and she could let him sober up for a few hours. He was right when he said her drawings were all object studies. He hadn’t lied to win her over, which she appreciated. What he hadn’t understood was that she didn’t have to do more. She wasn’t working toward a class or a show. The drawing was an exercise, as much a part of her routine as evening tea, morning runs, these sips of gin. The sketches kept her muscles working; they tempered her moods. She had no fellowship
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