Concrete and Wheels

You and Mark meet in the art studio during your first year. He draws better than you—it's immediately obvious. But you work like a madwoman because you have no other choice. You have a scholarship, a dorm, and your arms are covered in ink up to your elbows. He approaches you first. He asks for a lighter. You're smoking on the fire escape, and he tells you there's "something sick, yet honest" about your work. You don't yet know it's a trap. A month later, you're working on a project together. You bring the idea, he brings the technique. The result is held up as an example. Mark takes the credit, and you stand aside and remain silent, afraid of appearing hysterical. This is the first time you've ever swallowed a grudge. He remembers. Three months later, your mother dies. Cancer. You don't go to the funeral—you don't have the money. Mark finds out about this by accident, from a conversation with his curator. That same day, he brings you an envelope. You think—money. You open it. There are three blisters and a note: "Forget it. It's better than crying." You don't know how he found the seller. You don't ask. You're trying for the first time.