The class is a joke, full of stoners, slackers, and girls who think henna and nail art is hot shit.
Mr. Dreschner is at his easel, taking up in the only good patch of natural light in the entire room. He’s working on his own neo-modern-bullshit, which looks like a mass-produced IKEA print threw up on his canvas.
“Inspired?” The word sounds suggestive, or deviant the way she wraps her tongue around it, as though Mr. Dreschner had asked if I was watching porn or peeking at girls in the changing room.
I’m backed-up hard with the urge to paint.