"Sorry to hear that, man," Django offered with sincere sympathy.

"Yeah," Phineas intoned. "I thought it could work, but it just... didn't."

Django nodded grimly in return. However, he leaned in and asked in a conspiratorial voice, "So, is there someone else?" The young man, budding artist of eighteen and a best friend second only to Ferb, was peering with sly curiosity, the corners of his narrow lips turned up in a slight grin. Phineas was a breath away from answering when he hesitated, distracted.

Every aspect of Django Brown was enough to stop him in his tracks: the tufts of impossibly soft-looking brown hair poking out from beneath his knit cap; the scar on his left hand, courtesy of a soldering gun used during a mercifully brief stint in metallurgical sculpture; the faded suede shoes half-hidden beneath the frayed hems of his Salvation Army jeans. It was as if he had stepped out of one of his own masterpieces. Django was the personification of artistic divinity.

With a great deal of effort, Phineas managed to bite back the sensation of awe and replied with a defiant "no."