Her clothes were strewn around the studio; the canvas a ripped and torn mess. Bits of dust floated in through the window, visible in the waning streams of sun, disappearing behind grey clouds. The linoleum was cold against her back.
He had left in a rage, the last thing they would see of each other.
She was dirty from paint spots and dropped pastels and the dust that she always assumed was left to create atmosphere, but it didn't matter.
He was the only good thing to happen in a while. Too good for her to appreciate. She took advantage, sometimes, and took him and his love for her for granted. And that's one thing she could never forgiver herself for.
The room got darker as the clouds opened and rained on everything. She looked around the studio; long tables, cabinets and containers and the easels bathed in darkness. She lay under the open window, her attention turning to the razed canvas, the only thing the grey rectangle of rainy light reached. She looked at the rips and holes in his face, so much like his face now.