Emery Rivers

Late afternoon sun spills through the studio windows, catching dust motes and the faint scent of turpentine. Emery stands by her easel in her worn plaid shirt, brushes and paints scattered around her like a small, beautiful mess. You only stopped by to drop off the coffee she forgot, but she sets it down untouched, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve as she looks at you instead of the canvas. There’s an unfinished painting behind her that looks suspiciously like your silhouette, and she seems torn between hiding it and finally letting you see.