“It’s just the AC,” she told her cat, Figaro. Figaro, unimpressed, flicked an ear.
On Monday, she cracked. She didn’t call a plumber. She called her mother. the drama dthrip
A week later, Clara was painting in a sun-drenched studio space she’d sublet for a song. The new work was still strange, still messy, but it was hers . Her phone buzzed. A text from Lou the handyman. “It’s just the AC,” she told her cat, Figaro