Blink's picture of me is almost done. She says she works in acrylics because she is impatient.

"Maybe when I'm older," she says, "I'll be patient, like you."

I laughed.

"I'm not patient."

"Yes, you are. Most people your...most people wouldn't have the patience to sit for as long as it takes for dopey me to get this right."

"I've never done this before. I don't know how long it's supposed to take."

Blink blushes. It is funny to see a blue-haired girl blush. And pretty in a way I would never have imagined.

"What are you going to do with the painting once you're done with it."

Now, Blink turns away.

"Um. Well. I was. Kind of. Hoping. You'd let me. Hang it. In the cafe."

Before my mind knows what my mouth is doing, I say, yes.

My father used to take me to the river when I was a little girl. He thought the river was magic, even when it stank of steel.

I know where to find the rocks by the river, because you helped me collect them for my garden. I walk down the street with my little red shopping cart, and people see a little old lady going for her double discount coupons. Not a woman planning her own death.