The yellow tube of paint has a specific name. It’s a catchy one, too. Very exotic. To others, it holds importance, but not to Gretchen, for she has no interest in the names of different tones and hues, nor does she care for which hues are cold, and which ones are warm. The science behind painting is as useless to her as the science behind love. It exists for sure, but she would much rather build her world around gut feelings and intuition, rather than bland education. That’s not to say that she doesn’t believe in education—she’s studying at university after all—but when it comes to art, and matters of the heart, facts pale in comparison to that which can be felt but not seen. It’s an unpopular view. Whenever she shares it with others, it’s met with silence. Only the American seems open to what she has to say, and it’s at this moment that she’s thinking of the American that she notices the envelope on the table, secured to the surface by a dirty coffee cup. With her free hand, she picks it up and turns it over. Her name is written on the back, with two x’s beneath a line separating both. Opening it with a flick of her thumb, she sees money, and a handwritten note. The note is from the American, and reads; I know you’ll only spend this on wine, but I hope it tastes fine, and that it inspires you to paint something beautiful. A. A for Angie; Angie the American. Wiping away a thoughtful tear, Gretchen puts both the note and the money in the pocket of her dress, and for what feels like an eternity, but is most likely only a few seconds, sways from side to side as if in a dream.