Oh, great, Ferraro thought. Now he won't be able to let up on that for a week.
"It's cold in here," the girl said. The man at the easel didn't answer. She hugged herself and tucked her feet under her, frowning petulantly. "Alex?"
"Put a sweater on," the man said without looking away from his painting. His voice echoed in the huge loft.
"I've got one on."
"There's a blanket there."
With a sigh, the girl lay back on the bed, pulling the blanket around her. She draped one arm over her eyes, shielding them from the banks of fluorescent lights. Under her ear, on the not-very-clean pillow, she tucked a tiny pocket radio.
In the corner, water dripped from a tap into the chipped basin. Dimly the sounds of the traffic on Tenth Avenue floated up to them. Almost an hour passed. When she looked up, the man was standing back, frowning at the canvas.
"That's enough for now," she said gently.
He dropped the brushes on the taboret and wiped his hands absently, his eyes on the half-finished painting.