She stepped out of the chaos of the dance floor like a beacon of peace. Her dark eyes found mine and gave an exaggerated wink before thumbing at the door. My heart raced a little quicker. Even after thirteen years of marriage, she still made me blush.

I was twenty five when I met Cleo. I was fresh off the win of my first paid comic illustrating gig and felt confident as an artist for the first time. I ran into her with half my paint supplies as I rushed to get a taxi. She wore a white cashmere sweater that I had accidentally transformed into a Jackson Pollack. She looked down and then back up and me. Then she burst out laughing and it sounded like summertime adventures mixed with Christmas carols.

My lizard brain did just enough to stammer an apology as she admired the new look of her outfit. I forgot the taxi and asked if I could buy her a new sweater and she said yes. I haven’t gone a week since then without seeing her.

During our wedding she revealed that she still had that paint smeared sweater tucked away as a memento of fate. She told myself and our friends and family that she never wore white because she always spilled— but having an artist spill paint over you just means you’re a canvas. And she didn’t mind serving as inspiration. I could have said that part. After Cleo, I never drew the same. Everything found an extra shade— a brighter hue. My editor remarked that it seemed like my repertoire expanded overnight. Enough late nights rebuked that statement, but I enjoyed the newfound belief from upper management.

“It’s time to go home, buddy boy,” Cleo said as she grabbed my arm. “Rose is gonna be upset if she’s left with the sitter any longer tonight.”

“Ten years old and she already shares your north-du-bullshit.”

“Damian, you can’t just make up phrases to try and compliment both your girls,” she laughed.

I gave her my best shit eating grin, “I can try.”