Zia’s studio was actually her loft. She couldn’t think of a better place to create something than at home.

Ansel instantly fell in love with Zia’s loft. It was open, and gave him a sense of creative freedom. She had brought him there on a whim, gave him the simple excuse of wanting to show him some slides of her work.

While she was rummaging through a box, Ansel played aimlessly with a loose paintbrush, strewn on a paint splattered white sofa.

Zia emerged from her search sometime later, now with her long hair knotted loosely at her neck with a pair of chopsticks, carrying a brown folder that was near to bursting.

She sat down with Ansel on the sofa and tossed the folder down onto the floor, letting the loose xerox copies, and paint samples arrange themselves in scattered positions. Ansel picked up paper after paper, his eyes trying to remember each beautiful, morbid, serene, masochistic, cultured piece he saw.

Before they knew it, they were creating their own beautiful masterpiece on the sofa.