A young woman dates a painter and is enamored by the way he paints, the way he views her and how those views show up on the canvas. She is so proud of her relationship with him as if it is a way to tell everybody who ever dumped her to "piss off" but, by the story's end, with a clever twist, the reader sees that she has turned a blind eye to what this man is about. The paintings she loves are hers but not about her.
Told in the first person, this story was really hard to read because one almost gets the sense that this girl is really overselling herself and is that convinced of her own allure. I felt myself waiting for the big reveal. Any girl who is that sure about herself is a fool. This story proved this point in a very interesting and new way.