Free The Chinese Beverly Hills by John Shannon

moldings tacked up to hold it in place. The window offered a breathtaking view out over the hills east of her studio bedroom, though all that glass chilled the room at night and blinded her with sun in the mornings. She’d set up the studio portion of the room to be near the window and grab non-directional skylight from about ten on.
    This afternoon she was using the light to study a still life she’d set out on a small table. A tipped-up cast-iron frying pan. A pebbly black Scotch Tape dispenser. A shiny black coffee cup. A study in tones. She’d discovered she was better at tones than colors, and wanted to see how far she could push it.
    Her teacher seemed so helpful and so genuinely impressed by the works she brought in on Tuesdays and Thursdays that Maeve had decided to ignore the half-inch wood Tinkertoy spools he had in his slit earlobes. You’re trying way too hard, man, she’d thought.
    She dabbed some white into the bare image of the pan and saw she’d gone too far. With acrylics you had to work fast and you couldn’t move the paints around and blend later. She’d probably switch to oils. She realized it had been more than an hour since she’d fussed about Bunny.
    There was a tap at the door, like punctuation to her thought. But it could have been anybody. Annoyed, she stabbed the brush into a jar of water and unstrapped her apron.
    “Come,” she called, trying to sound odd and mysterious.
    She froze. It was Bunny herself, peering in with a hangdog look and carrying a flask-shaped bottle of Bunny’s favorite, Mateus rosé.
    “Peace offering.”
    Maeve’s spirits soared. She felt faint and had to grasp the back of the sofa for support. “Thank you, Bunny. So much.”
    “Did I hurt you bad?”
    “I was hurt.”
    “I understand, sweet. I laid my good down and my own problems gushed all over the place. I been under pressure in ways you don’t want to know.” She made a gesture, waving it all away. “I want to make it up to you.”
    Maeve wasn’t all that fond of sweet Mateus wine, but she would have drunk battery acid just then. All her affection flooded back in. She couldn’t help thinking—trying hard not to stare—what a glorious, abundant body Bunny had. Maeve plucked two washed-out jam jars from her painting supplies, opened the wine and poured. They sat face to face on the hooked rug.
    “Can you tell me about this pressure?” Maeve asked.
    “I need a cigarette.”
    “So smoke.”
    “You said this was a smoke-free zone.”
    “Girl, smoke.”
    Bunny lit up with a wooden match and sighed with relief. Maeve fetched a jar lid for an ashtray.
    “I’m supposed to color inside the lines for now,” Bunny said.
    “Who said that?”
    “Swami Muni.”
    Maeve was startled. She’d had no hint of another side of Bunny at all. The name sounded like a local bus line.
    “He assigned me a boyfriend two months ago, like some zoo, and I didn’t like the guy at all, but he told me I had to give him a try. He picks his nose, Maeve, and he never went to college. But I try to like him.”
    “You’re the one who’s going to get hurt,” Maeve said.
    Bunny hung her head for a while, and Maeve resisted the urge to sidle over and hug her.
    “I still feel I have things to learn from the swami. I can be pretty shrewd.”
    “No, you can’t. Why are you doing this thing?”
    “I offered my searching soul to Muni at a retreat a year ago. He knew startling things about me with just a little talking. I know you’re not persuaded.”
    “I’m here for you right now.”
    There was a sudden hammering at the door, definitely none of their roommates.
    “Are you holding?” Maeve asked.
    Bunny shook her head. “It’s probably the guy. He acts like he’s Thor, the god of the big dick.” She giggled once. “Actually, the appendage is just so-so.”
    “I think I could get him beaten up if you want.”
    “Just get him to leave me alone.”
    After more door-banging, Bunny crouched down behind a Japanese