Oscar was a little disappointed. He didn't need to be; his work had received only rave reviews during its exhibition at the Contemporary Art Institute. But there was something nagging him, and he had a sense of what it was: he'd been commissioned to create more work similar to what he'd had on display. Dr. Chilton had apparently found someone interested in buying a few of Oscar's pieces, but the buyer (according to Dr. Chilton) wanted something new . . . something that he could claim was his own and that had not been given to the public for their viewing pleasure. Oscar didn't really see what the big deal was—if the man had liked the work he'd seen, why didn't he just want to buy the pieces? Oscar wouldn't have minded selling them (he hadn't been attached to them in the least). Who cared if someone had already seen them? Of course, this buyer, whoever he was, was the one willing to shell out money, and if Oscar wanted to sell, he'd have to cater to the man.

It really shouldn't have mattered so much to Oscar; he knew that. Someone wanted to pay him to do something he considered easy! And he wouldn't even have to give up an artwork he loved (because he knew that if he sculpted another piece similar to the ones that had received such glowing praise, he couldn't be attached to it). How painful it would be to create something he adored and then sell it away to someone who likely wouldn't love it as he had; many artists did do that in order to make money, but Oscar didn't have to! He should be happy. He should be thrilled. It was easy money, and any public recognition would continue to get his name out in the papers and amongst the art circles Dr. Chilton was always talking about (but with which Oscar had yet to come into contact). Besides, he could use the income. He wasn't working. He was merely finishing up his courses and had quit his part-time job at a restaurant in order to focus more on his work. Dr. Chilton had advised him to do so, promising him that he'd be busy creating for paying clients in no time.

Oscar had known that agreeing to his professor's plan was a risky decision, but he also believed that people who wanted to get anywhere in life needed to take risks. He hadn't discussed this opportunity with anyone, partly because he wanted to make up his own mind without outside influence, and partly because he sensed, somewhere deep down, that this opportunity rode on more than just his abilities as an artist; perhaps it was his imagination, but whether it was or not, he would have felt awkward talking about Dr. Chilton with his mother or with Eve. Both of them would probably have cautioned him, told him to take it slow, suggested he get something in writing . . . they would have placed doubts in his mind and reasoned him out of the choice he'd made. And Oscar hadn't wanted that. He hadn't wanted his opinion swayed by someone who didn't understand what it was he needed now: recognition. He was going to tell his mother about it, after he made money and was on his way to real success. Then, she'd see that her son had been able to handle himself in the business world. Oscar knew that while his mother trusted his artistic talents one-hundred percent, she doubted his common sense; she'd never told him that directly, but he sensed it. He sensed it in the ways she checked up on him and the sorts of questions she asked: have you paid your rent, this month? Are all your classes scheduled for the fall? Why didn't you ask me for my advice before doing that? Yes, his mother didn't entirely trust her son's organizational and business sensibilities, and he wanted to prove to her that he could manage himself, now. When the right moment came, he would spring the news of his triumph on her and she'd commend the wonderful son she had gone through so much pain to raise. Eve, on the other hand . . . well, he'd have to tell her about everything sooner than that. She was with him at least every other day, and she had already begun to ask him some questions about work (she'd heard a rumor that he'd quit his job). He'd been able to avert her scrutiny, but it was time to talk to her about everything.

That was why he was here, now. In the writing center at Corland. He didn't usually spend time in the writing center, mostly because he wasn't a writer and rarely needed to make use of the facilities. Mostly freshman and sophomore students were there, trying to make it through their gen-eds. Eve ran the writing center and taught a couple of classes a semester as a TA. Oscar knew that both of the classes were in the afternoon, and they dealt with freshman composition. Eve was older than he was and had graduated college two years ago with a degree in English. Oscar had talked to her about saving up for grad school, because he didn't think she'd ever be able to do much with a degree like that, but Eve always skirted the issue and changed the subject; she didn't like having others tell her what to do.

Oscar chided himself. There he went again, thinking bad things about Eve. What was it about her, lately, that caused him to pick her apart inside his head? He was totally in love with Eve. She was a spark of light that caused the rest of the world to not matter so much. As he sat at the front desk in the center, waiting for her to finish tutoring someone through some essay, he reminded himself of all the enchanting qualities Eve possessed.

Soon, she was walking his way. She'd spotted him and waved when he'd entered, but she'd been busy. Now, she was done and heading down the rows of isolated cubicles. He watched the way she walked, so lightly and yet not childishly so. Her hair was a bit messy and she wore a sweater dress that was too big for her and cowboy boots. She seemed so at ease, here. Eve seemed at ease everywhere. Oscar found himself about to find fault in that but stopped the thought right as she reached him.

"What are you doing here?" She smiled, obviously pleased to see him.

Oscar, still sitting in her desk chair, took her hands and attempted to pull her onto his lap.

"No, Oscar, I'm supposed to be professional, here," she said, still smiling but resisting his efforts.

"Yeah, you look real professional with that dress on."

She frowned a little. "What's wrong with this dress?" Taking a step back, she surveyed herself to check the lengths of her clothing. "It's not too short or anything, is it?"

"I don't know. But it wouldn't make me concentrate on my writing in here."

Eve playfully smacked his shoulder. "Oh stop. Aren't you just adorable today?"

"Not as adorable as you are."

She studied him, a skeptical smile on her face. "Why are you here? You never come visit me at work."

"I never have papers to write."

"I know, but still. Sometimes people pop in and say hello to one another, just because . . ."

There she went, trying to make him feel imperfect again. No! It wasn't her . . . that was just Oscar's brain messing with him. Eve was crazy about him, and he was crazy about her. He took her hands again, and this time, she let him. "Listen. I just wanted to talk. When was the last time we went out to dinner? I want to take you out tonight."

"Oh. So it's a date you came for, is that it?" Her eyes glowed with mischief and, in spite of her earlier refusal, she sat almost weightlessly on his thighs and put her arms around his neck. "I have my five-thirty-to-seven class today. That might be too late for you."

"Too late for me?" Oscar feigned chivalry. "Nothing's too late for Oscar Marcus. I'd take you to dinner in the middle of the night, if you so wished."

"Fortunately, I don't wish. But how about you pick me up here after work? That way, I don't have to waste time taking the bus home."

"Yep," Oscar agreed. "Can do." He held her there still.

A short silence passed in which they were both happy with one another, but then a hand shot up from a computer in a cubicle toward the windows, and Eve sighed as she caught sight of it. "Oh no, not him again."

Oscar looked in the direction she'd glanced and saw the hand. "Why? What's wrong with him?"

Lowering her voice to a near-whisper even though no one was nearby, she replied, "He's really nice but it's so hard to help him because he doesn't know much English at all. He's always asking for assistance but he never understands what I say!"

Frowning a bit, Oscar commented, "Yeah, he's probably faking it. I bet he just has a crush on you."

"Come on! That's ridiculous."

Oscar didn't reply. He suddenly wanted to snap in half the raised hand waving above the far-away cubicle.

"All right. I'd better go," Eve finally said when the student peeked his head over the wall of the cubicle and motioned to her.

"What, are you at his every beck and call?"

She slid out of his grasp and off his lap. "Well, yes, sort of. They pay me to help these guys." She smiled at him again, no annoyance or hint of exasperation evident in her features, and yet Oscar for some reason resented her comment.

Eve was about to walk away but, at the last moment, she turned and bent over Oscar, sneaking him a kiss. "I'll see you soon, ok? I'm really looking forward to it. I love that you think about me." Then she made her way toward the annoyed writer.

Oscar watched her until she reached him. She turned back to pass him a knowing smile, as if to say, See what I mean? about the guy she was working with. He faked a grin in return, but he didn't feel quite at ease. Of course Eve had to help the guy. That was her job. But now that he thought of it, Oscar wondered how often the younger college guys came in here and hit on her. He wondered if they had asked her out. Or if they knew she was taken. Did she tell them she was his? He stopped his thoughts. Why was he feeling so insecure? It was stupid. He should be feeling on top of the world. Tonight, he would tell Eve what luck he'd had lately. He'd been feeling guilty for a while because he hadn't been telling her anything at all about his success; he'd kept it quiet because it hadn't felt quite real and he didn't want to get his hopes too high. Now, though, why shouldn't he want to tell her that his dreams were being recognized? Why shouldn't she be happy for him? And if she was happy for him, then he'd feel happier with himself.

It was time to go. He didn't want to sit in this fluorescent-lit lab and watch Eve work anymore. He decided he didn't like seeing her in a real job, attempting to alleviate the ignorance of insipid underclassmen. It didn't fit his impression of her. Someday, when he had serious money, he'd make it so Eve would never have to work. She'd be able to pursue any degrees or talents she wanted to. They'd be the happiest people alive, and he wouldn't have to go get rid of his disillusioned dreams through intoxications and chemicals; he would find a real, beautiful world in the midst of all this depressing mess around him. He was going to overcome everything someday, and then he'd be happy. That someday was closer than ever before.

As he was leaving the building, Oscar's phone rang. He checked the number before answering and took in a breath; it was Dr. Chilton. "Yeah?" he answered, his palm feeling sticky against his phone all of a sudden. "This is Oscar."

"Hey, dear. It's Kate," came the authoritative voice on the other end. "I need you to come over to the studio and let me know what you've got so far for McCarthy."

McCarthy was the name of the buyer, Oscar knew. Dr. Chilton wouldn't give him a first name; she called everyone by their last name except for him, Oscar. "Oh. Do you need me now?"

"That's what I said. That is . . . if you're still interested in making a sale."

"Yeah, definitely," he said. "I absolutely am. And I can be there in, like, five minutes. I just need to be free by seven." He was on the campus already. The studio was a few buildings over and up several floors. It wasn't going to be a big problem to meet with Dr. Chilton and then catch Eve after her class let out. Besides, he hadn't seen his professor in several days . . . at least, he hadn't seen her on her own. He'd seen her in class. But there was something different about her when it was just the two of them. She put butterflies in Oscar's stomach. Butterflies he maybe shouldn't want to feel . . . but butterflies that felt too exciting to resist.

"All right," she replied, likely without a clue as to what Oscar was thinking at that moment. "That should be manageable. I'll see you in a bit."

As anxious as he was to get up to the studio and get working, Oscar had the notion that whatever she'd want him to build, he wasn't going to like it. There was something depressing about creating things that he didn't feel were beautiful. Was there something wrong with not wanting to create things that others deemed beautiful? Was it a sin to want to create what he believed to be beautiful? But his version of beauty wasn't what was wanted. It wasn't what was going to sell to this McCarthy man. Perhaps, Oscar thought, if he could just make some money doing these things now, he could transition into creating what he really wanted to create, and people would realize, then, how much more worth their money his work could be.

"I'll see you soon," he replied, and then he hung up.