They nodded. Absorbing his words as the rush of momentum left them and their pulse slowed to a steady rhythm. But, it was one thing after another, and after the distress of lateness, a new matter of vexation materialized: the Barrett case and the lawsuit against the Mary C. Argent Museum. It wasnât as if Marie was looking for something to argue with Isaiah withâlord only knew that every other word that left their mouth was a thinly veiled act of aggressionâbut they had been over this before. Marie was a staunch supporter of Julieâa fraternizer with the mysterious foreign woman who had been bestowed with the title of Director seemingly out of left field. When it came to the controversial lawsuit, Marie was of the opinion that the Barretts had no right to claim ownership to a painting owned by the museum. Taking a deep breath, they blinked.
 âHe did, but there were a multitude of reasons why he resigned when he did,â they informed Isaiah, envisioning the past board meetings and the dreadful announcements. âHe left several unattended matters for Julie to take care of⊠including this whole shenanigan with the BarrettsâŠâ
 âI wouldnât say so,â they retorted in regards to Julie Frost. âHave you ever seen her with her husband? Her son? Sheâs a completely different person once you get to know her. Fred was a good man but he was too⊠looseâtoo carefree. All that giddiness was from drinking and you just know thatâs why the Argent was having all sort of troubleâŠâ
 Isaiah had been subject to dozens upon dozens of rants about the Argentâall courtesy of Marie. They denied any dislike of Mr. Umber, but they were polar opposites. Stiff from trauma and loss, Marie couldnât understand the recklessness Mr. Umber engaged in when it came to museum security and preservation. His negligence didnât go unnoticed, but more often than not, the curators and museum staff would carry on the museum like clockwork even if Mr. Umber wasnât of a sober mind. It was decades of irksome mishaps, and Marie was relieved to see a professional take the museum under their wings.
 âIf itâs tedious and you donât want to do it, donât do it.â Resting their head on their hand, they waited for a server to pass so that they could order. âIâm sure the paintings are better suited remaining at the museum anywayââ
 At the end of their sentence, they flagged down a waitress and ordered coffee.
   âCompassion to people-- thatâs easy.â Isaiah began. Of all the people he could say it to, of course he would be saying it to them. Marie was one of Isaiahâs closest confidantes, and while they were hardly a friend to him (as there was no one who meant more to Isaiah than himself), they were someone with a great knowledge of Isaiah and his inner mechanisms. âFrost can care about her children because they are her possessions. They are a part of herself, so caring for them is narcissism accompanied by a mere smokescreen of concern. Caring about things, now thatâs whatâs hard.â
   To be entirely honest with himself, Isaiah could never understand why someone would care about other people or things in their life. Why should anything have meaning? Isaiah had long since established that the universe was a void, and that he was entirely alone in it. Life itself was just desperate race to validate oneself as much as possible until they keeled over. What was the point of trying to become something extraordinary when one could never bear witness to the legacy they would spend a lifetime creating?
   Isaiah found art to be the purest example of this desperate struggle, a concentrated example of the human condition, a tangible cry into the void.
   Maybe that was why he was so devoted to doing anything he could to protect its integrity.
   Fingers began to toy with the cup, drumming on the porcelain and picking at chipping paint. Stimulation. âFrost canât know whatâs best for the art because the art isnât a part of her. She can force herself to feel anything she wants-- concern, empathy, some carnal version of lust-- for the art, but she will never be connected to it the same way Eden or Jacob are. The art isnât hers to feel for.â A chip of paint fell off his cup, and Isaiah pushed it in a figure eight on the table with his thumb.
   âShe may own them in a material sense, and she may win the case for their possession, but they will never be hers. They will always, to some degree, be strangers to her. Do you get it yet? These artworks are more than just art to the Barretts. They are living things. To Frost, they will only ever be canvas stretched over wooden frames.
   âIs that really what you think is best for them, Marie? To be locked up behind plate glass thatâs just about as cold as the looks they will receive until the museum is ultimately closed and they are pawned off, and they become owned, but not known, by someone else? Am I supposed to enable that cycle?â
   It was funny how a faint tingling at the back of oneâs throat could grow so rapidly to a nearly all-consuming desire. Discussing the issue of the lawsuit had made Isaiah unbelievably antsy, and considering the fact that he hadnât consumed any narcotics in the last three hours, he was about to fall headfirst into some severe withdrawal. Another flake of paint chipped off, joining the other on the table and then under his thumb. He had to wait. If he left too soon, he would risk Marieâs suspicion.
   Then again, would they care? Couldnât they tell he was sober, that he had attempted to be sober?
   Three minutes. He gave it three minutes until he caved. Another flake of paint.
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