"This world knows nothing of success. These people they worship, success stories they call 'em. Bah. What's their money gonna do for 'em when they die, ey? Give 'em ten years, twenty if they're lucky, and all they gonna be is another name on a shut-up inheritance claim."
Len had a habit of talking to the grayed dish towel he always slung over his shoulder whenever he went into the kitchen. I could hear him in there, twisting the stove knob just so because if you didn't turn it right all you got was the smell of propane, filling the speckled, dented pot, and rummaging in the cupboard above his head for the Oolong that he got from one of the thousand tiny shops in Chinatown.
"Ya want milk, son?"
"No thanks Len, just tea is fine."
I leaned back on the sagging couch and picked at the bits of stuffing coming through. It smelled faintly of linseed oil and was gray, like everything else in Len's apartment.
Except his paintings.
