His eyes are tired. Bleary and bloodshot, not at all seeing clearly. His wife had forsaken him hours ago; she did not compete with his mangled muse.
Porchette was an artist of some renown who was found completely by accident. He had not meant to create. He meant to repair the damage he had inflicted upon the gallery piece he had fallen through in his drunken stupor. His repairs were futile. But his eye was remarkable.
His recompense came when he had been commissioned to paint a piece in its stead. His inspiration was a celebration; a gathering of friends to fete his accomplishment. But after he had completed himself and Azraella (his wife), Porchette ran out of models to reproduce.
His time ran short; a deadline approached. Porchette’s angular rendering of his corner of the empty room stirred many emotions. His absurdity expressed in oils with the charming title, was another piece that had been a master stroke. The corks flew and vintage poured.
Azraella did not like a sloppy drunk. But, she did not compete with his mangled muse.