Travis was perched upon a stool in front of a large canvas. This was Abstract Painting 401.

"Remember," came the voice of the teacher, "that your brush is an extension of yourself. Let your brush make love to your canvas, like you would make love to a woman, or to a man for you boys who are into that sort of thing."

A devious snicker came from the predominantly female class. The three other men in the class exchanged shifty glances, but Travis' eyes stayed locked on his canvas.

'Here is the world,' he said to himself, 'and there's nothing I can put into it.'

When class was dismissed, every student washed their respective brushes and hands and pallets, set their paintings up to dry, found their coats, and promptly left the class. All students, that is, except for one.

"Yes, Mr. McMinn?" asked the teacher from her desk. She wasn't looking at him; her fingers were nimbly sorting out pieces of paper.

He looked at his canvas. The words were all in his head, they just couldn't formulate properly. After a while, he finally found his approach. "You know me pretty well, don't you, Ms. Waters?"

He heard the rustling of papers cease. "I would say that I know you're a dedicated student, and a very talented artist." The rhythm of her footsteps echoed across the studio. Within a few, short moments she stood behind his canvas facing him. "What is it?"

"I don't know exactly. I can't think abstractly today. I mean, its all abstract, everything; all these thoughts and words are so… jumbled around in my head. But when I try to get it out…"

Ms. Waters was roughly forty-five years old. The wrinkles below her eyes betrayed her age. "Who is she?" she asked.

Travis met her eyes with a look of complete surprise.

"I don't know you, Travis, but I know your type. Who is she?"

He slouched on his stool wearing the expression of dejection. "The only girl who's ever really been nice to me." He was quiet for a bit, and his patient teacher waited for the words to find themselves. "Last night we were both out, and we'd had a couple of drinks. Our third roommate, the asshole jerk off, was still out when we came back to the loft and…" Travis faced the ceiling for inspiration. Or motivation. It was difficult to tell. "And she- she sort of implied she was… that she had a think for, um, him."

Ms. Waters let the last words ricochet softly off the high walls in the studio. With a kind look at him, she said, "I've been around a while. I know that the only things worth having are the things you're willing to fight for."

He studied his teacher.

"If I knew what I know now when I was your age, I would be married and have a thousand babies and be enjoying my happily ever after." She paused for effect. "If you're going to lay down and die instead of trying to win her over, then say hello to a life of dialogue with gravity."

Travis bore a shy smile. "Th-thank you Ms. Waters."

It wasn't until much later that evening when Travis came back to the loft. He listened as his footsteps echoed back to him in the deep red hallway. He saw Jones at the kitchen table, bent over a cup of coffee and a book. Her nose was always in a book.

She heard him coming and looked up over the rim of her black glasses. He'd often heard her joke about her reading glasses; "These are my birth control glasses," she'd say. "I wear them to save your relationship. If I didn't wear them, your boyfriend would break up with you and come chasing me down."

Glasses or no, Travis couldn't help his mind from briefly wandering down the length of her neck and around the lines of her lips.

"Oh, Travis, it's you."

Her voice broke the spell of imagination, and he snapped back to reality. He shook his head slightly and nodded.

"D'you want some coffee or something?" she offered gently.

He paused, half way to his room. "Uh… nah, actually. I think I'll just turn in, painting took it out of me tonight."

Jones sounded slightly crestfallen. "Oh, okay."

He listened to the sound of his door swinging shut behind him as he flopped down on his bed. His teacher's words rang through his mind. 'If you're going to lay down and die instead of trying to win her over…'

"Easier said than done, Mrs. Waters," Travis said quietly, as he worked his shoestrings loose.