Verdi’s Nabucco, or two arias from it, were just beginning on the classical radio station. Jessie turned it up. Took a slug of wine from the cup. Threw the red paint on the canvas and waited.
He knew he was an asshole. He didn’t have to be told. To begin with he was an artist who hadn’t exhibited in five long years.
During which time he’d managed to get barred from every pub in the village he lorded over. Not for the straightforward drunk and disorderly. No, not Jessie. He’d been barred for outright fornication of the respective owner’s wives and not once but three times. Not to mention the other unspeakable time he’d managed to deflower an overweight, sweaty, rugby husband of one the higher-end socialite restaurant owners on the High Street.