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Soul crushing, absolutely soul crushing. The sweet homecoming scene she'd played out in her head a thousand times turned out a smidge different than the technicolor, slow motion run of her beloved children into her arms. Sure, they gave her a hug and a kiss and happily accepted the gifts from abroad ... wait .... gifts from a broad, if there was anyone who fit the description of a broad right now it was her ... a broad ... she made a note to try it in the act ... Anyway, her babies bounced for all of two minutes before they scurried off. Her tiny girl could scurry now and she'd missed it. Midge had missed a lot of things in her months away - birthdays, anniversaries, kisses, hugs, jokes, laughter, tears. Joel had done so well with the kids. Too well. Well enough that she was no longer needed by them or Joel or her parents for that matter. Everyone had lives and plans and half a day after arriving she sat alone in the apartment. She could call Ben but she didn't want to and after their last encounter she was reasonably certain he would rather never see her again. She strolled back down the hall to her room. Susie! Even Susie had her own thing now, kowtowing to that cow. No, that was not polite, she corrected herself - Sophie was more of bull than a cow. Midge smirked. No one seemed to really care that she was back with gifts and brilliant stories with which to regale the plebes. Where were her admiring throngs? Where was the fatted calf for the prodigal daughter? She really needed to stop with these bovine references she thought as she shimmied into the dark blue pencil skirt, tied the bow on her white blouse and strolled out of the house, her little kitten heels perhaps not clicking and clacking as bouncily as on other occasions. Not sure where she was going, she walked where the rush of people took her. They were all going home no doubt; she didn't think she had a home any more. Had it been worth it? Midge took a moment. Yes, damn straight it had been worth it - she played to sold out audiences, toured Europe, lived like a queen, honed her act, why the press she got out of all this was ... was worth her children's love? Oh, that was a cruel blow Mrs. Maisel, cruel. She walked into the bar."Martini, two olives."Up she hopped onto the barstool; the skirt was a little more restrictive than she remembered ... probably all that caviar and champagne. Midge half snorted a laugh - more like ham and cheese sandwiches and Coke. The food on the top was not much different than the bottom. She sat at the bar and looked deep into the green-eyes of her drink. What was she going to do? A voice, a familiar voice, caught her attention. "Fuck! Fuck Caravaggio! He was just a self absorbed prick with a hothead and shitty swordsmanship skills. He paid too much attention to his image and not enough to his painting ..." The uproar of his companions was deafening. Midge turned and stared at Declan Howell. Good to see some things didn't change. She lifted her glass in mock toast.He squinted at her, and nodded his head in recognition. Not thirty seconds later he was at her side. "It is you. I wondered what happened to you, oh luminous being.""You don't remember my name do you Declan?" She bit forcefully into an olive. "I most certainly do ... not. But I remember you and your overbearing and ugly thief of a boyfriend - he still around?""Nope.""Good." He settled comfortably onto the stool and ordered a drink. "By the looks of you, his being around might be a good thing. He was a doctor remember." She examined the gash on his forehead. "Who did that, the landlord's kid?"Declan frowned. "The kid does have a great left jab for a three year old, but this ... " he lightly touched at his wound, "... this was self inflicted. Stairs are not a drunkard's friend, m' dear.""Ouch." Poor guy. She took a sip of her drink. "The name's Midge. I'll let you off the hook this time because, you know ..." she pointed at his head with the remaining half of the skewered olive, "head injury."Declan dipped his head to hide a smile. "Ah, Midge ...yes.... Midge .... Purchased any paintings as of late.""None. None that came with a hat at least." She was trying to be flippant, to be her charming self, but it was not working. She had nothing else to say and silence, much hated silence, fell between them. "How are you?" He sounded sincere and not nearly as drunk as he had sounded five minutes ago. He raised his eyes to her and she broke. Midge spilled everything all over the guy and he didn't run or even try to wipe it away. "But the work?" He motioned to the bartender for another drink, then turned back to her, eyes boring into her. "The work was phenomenal wasn't it?" He waited for her answer and it came in the form of a hesitant nod followed by the rise of a slow blush that turned the milky glow of her complexion into a soft pink the likes of which he'd only ever seen before in a Sargent painting. Her red-lipsticked grin provided the perfect counterpoint to it all and he sat mesmerized as she tried to describe her tour. "It was all I ever wanted it to be. Those moments where you and the audience are just bouncing along, and they get it, you know? They are with you, they understand and you zig and zag and they follow and approve and are still there at the end. .... And the laughter! Waves of it! Waves that wash over you, waves you can lead in any direction and ... and time stops and you just can feel this ... this satisfaction ... this sense of acceptance.... " Midge realized he was no longer listening to her and stopped."Sit for me?""Excuse me?""Let me paint you. I'm not a portraitist or a realist for that matter but for you I'll make an exception... "Ah, perhaps she had overestimated his interest. He was a man after all. "Are you still trying to get in my pants? I suppose you want me thrown across a bed, naked and legs splayed open like a Courbet." She gestured with her hands as she talked trying to not looked pleased that he found her worthy of painting. Declan chuckled and threw back his drink. "Du Monde, du monde ... You do know your art ....""Mom's an artist. I guess it's in the blood." She bit at the cocktail stir and watched him watch her."I am not trying to get laid, Midge. Not right now anyway, you're a little too vulnerable, too hurt, too alive and not even for a hardened old bellend like me would take advantage of ye' ..." He reached over and took the stir from her lips. "I just want to record what I see, a young artist, a true artist on the cusp of finding herself." His studio was just as it was the last time she visited except for maybe the layer of dust had grown a couple of centimeters thicker. From somewhere he produced a clean white sheet and threw it across the grunge grey sofa. It landed soft in undulations like a magic carpet. Declan tugged here and there to provide the proper ground for her to sit.He stared at her with a strange intensity as he arranged his lights and easel. Midge was beginning to have second thoughts about this. She'd only met the man twice before and both times he'd been in his cups. Of course, he was in his cups now, she thought, so really what was there to worry about. If one could roll ones eyes at ones self she would have.Declan approached her and extended a tentative hand, then quickly pulled it back. "Do you think you could undo the bow, unbutton a button or two. I'd like to see your neck if you don't mind."His manner was the opposite of the belligerent manly swagger he displayed before his bar mates. She could now see how it had been possible for him to produce that masterpiece of light and color that he kept hidden behind a secret door. She undid the bow and the first top button of her blouse. He gently arranged the garment's folds to his liking and stepped back, choosing colors, picking out brushes, mixing ... working."Would you mind if I talk while you paint?" Silence scared her. He agreed and she launched into a routine, adding and subtracting material that she thought might work on him. And she did manage to get a laugh or two or three from him. They worked on companionably, a comfortableness sprang between them, as if they'd been friends for years. At one point he just stopped and stared at her trying to get an essence he was missing."What?" She asked. "Do you want me to move or?""No, no ... you are ... just very beautiful." In retrospect she blamed what she did next on his manner, or the light, or the martinis or maybe it had just been the fumes from the turpentine and linseed oil. She looked down and unbuttoned her blouse further, pulled it and her bra strap off her shoulder exposing one perfect round and pink-nippled breast for him.Declan's eyes grew wide as if he were trying to swallow it all into memory. He returned to his easel with renewed fervor and for the next half hour not another word was spoken as he worked away. Finally, he dropped his brush, wiped his hands and walked over to her. Midge sat exposed and she felt like she should feel embarrassed, or ashamed or maybe just a little frightened. But she wasn't any of those things. Declan got on his knees before her so his eyes were level with hers. "Thank you," he half whispered before dipping his head and placing a chaste kiss on her breast. He lifted the strap of the bra and the blouse back over her shoulder and held his hand at her breast for a second. "Perhaps we'd best call it a night."Midge did her best to control her breathing - she did not want to turn into the cliche of the turned on, bare breasted, heaving chested female, even though, good god she very much was. So she did what she did best. She made a joke. A rather crass one. And he laughed. He refused to let her see the painting. She had expected as much. He cleaned his brushes. She got properly back into her bra and blouse feeling a little more at ease with herself and the world. Downstairs, Declan hailed a taxi for her and they went their separate ways until the next time one or the other needed a muse or some pithy advise.