The stranger from whom I was estranged was a painter. The painter called himself my brother. Me, I considered him a bother.

This painter, he wore a Tyrolean hat appointed with a single crow's feather. Seldom a day passed without the cool venom of his contempt.

Velasquez was a hack, he said. (Monday)

Picasso was a hack and a philanderer, he said. (Tuesday)

Gauguin was a hack and a pedophile, he said. (Wednesday)

The painter promised redress for my hospitality, but precise terms were never discussed.

I was too meek to cast him out onto the street, this lamentable creature.

He took me to a café where his work was displayed. We assumed a booth in the back of the room, behind a gloomy troop of tweens. He took a nip of cognac from the miniature bottle in his pocket and nodded in the direction of the painting. The canvas was utterly blank, save for the looping signature. I wondered if it was uninformed or just unfinished. The piece was hanging between a pastel saxophone and portrait of Pam Grier in sheer lace apparel. The stranger braced his chin with both hands. Before he could speak the barista came out from behind the counter.

Are you going to order something or just keep ogling Grier? he asked.
    
~

The painter and I stopped for a matinee on our way home. He smoked under the marquee while I paid for tickets. The only showing was an animated feature, a mouse with rounded spectacles and a nose for danger. By the time we claimed our seats the previews had ended. The painter swilled his cognac, sipped, and then offered me a drink. I shook my head. Your loss, mon cher, he said, sealing the cap. Halfway into his pocket the bottle slipped from his hand. Heads turned as the sound of rolling glass scored the picture. The bottle stopped dead and attention settled back on the screen. I looked for the painter, but he was several rows ahead, crouched low and crawling with purpose.