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That makes me look at him more closely. “What do you want next?”

He spreads both hands as though the answer might fit between them if he reaches far enough. “More room.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know yet.”

I take another drink. “You want a larger canvas for something you haven’t figured out.”

“I’ve figured out the painting. I just don’t know what it looks like yet.”

To Kell, that’s different.

By noon, I’m standing inside the little art-supply shop two towns over while he considers a canvas so large I immediately begin calculating doorway sizes.

“No.”

He turns toward me. “I didn’t ask yet.”

“You were going to.”

“I want this one.”

“I had a feeling.”

He touches one corner of the canvas. “Why no?”

“Because I enjoy having floors.”

“I use the cloth.”

“You use the cloth in approximately the same way toddlers use napkins. Technically present. Limited effect.”

The clerk behind the counter laughs. Kell ignores her.

“It will fit.”

“In the house?”

“Yes.”

“So would a motorcycle. That doesn’t mean I want one in the dining room.”

He looks at the canvas again. I’m not actually opposed to him having it. That’s the irritating part. It’s just that I can already picture furniture shoved toward the walls and Kell circling the thing for hours while I try not to step in something permanent.

“I’m not saying you can’t have it,” I tell him. “I’m saying you can’t paint it in my dining room.”

“Where?”

“That’s a question for the artist.”

He goes quiet. I know that type of silence now. He isn’t offended. He’s solving a problem.

The clerk comes around the counter and looks from Kell to the canvas. “You could work outside.”

Kell turns toward her.

She shrugs. “People do.”