I wrote this a while ago, another Creative Writing Club exercise. Two objects had to be used, those being a portrait and an eraser. And so, we have this.

Critique appreciated, of course, especially on the ending.

At about five past eight in the evening, a snarl emerged from the man’s mouth as he made another swipe across his nearly blank canvas. The easel, in the corner of his diminutive, dank apartment, quaked, nearly falling over, with the force of his strike. In his hand was not the typical paintbrush, or even a pencil, but instead, a soft white eraser. Pencil to paper, eraser to pencil; repeat as needed—that was his way with two-dimensional art these days. And sculpture was an art form to which he didn’t even lend a thought. Once he formed something even resembling a shape, he would hate it, and promptly crush it. This ‘art block’ had lasted him three months now. The deadlines and commissions that had piled up in this time were high enough to kill him by now, and he highly doubted that he would be able to make this month’s rent on his shabby East Village apartment.
With another growl, he turned away and threw his eraser onto his dusty, creaking floor, only to be greeted by the incessant twinkling of his cell phone.
Click. “Yeah?” he asked, trying to clear the annoyance out of his voice.
“Man, where are you?” A male voice, notably stressed, crackled from the phone’s speaker.
“I’m going to assume you mean in relation to your art gallery. In that respect, I’m not at all near it, nor do I plan on being there later this evening.”
“Do you always have to be so formal? Max, you’re a great guy and all, but chill out, man, seriously.” He paused before adding, mimicking his friend’s reserved tone, “Anyway, your beloved ‘fakes’ are clamoring to see you. If you’re not here soon, it’s possible that a riot will erupt.” With that, Max heard the click of his friend hanging up the phone.
Doing likewise, he began muttering to himself. “Okay, Ray, of course I’ll be there.” Sighing, he traded his nondescript green shirt and jeans for a similarly unremarkable white collared shirt, black tie, and black slacks. But, in a final act of rebellion, he slipped on a pair of battered mahogany flip-flops.
He caught himself looking in the mirror by his door as he slipped out into the biting cold of the just-beginning New York City winter. Olive-tint skin, unkempt short brown hair, plain blue eyes, and, of course, the stereotypical five-o’-clock shadow of a careless but troubled ‘starving artist.’
Better than usual, he thought, and fled to the subway station.

Twenty minutes later, he stood in front of another frame, this one in a grand-sized, undecorated art gallery, with that same trapped feeling. In this frame, however, he could not see himself, only an artifact of his past. A veritable time capsule in oil paints, one might say.
“Lucy,” he rasped, and he turned to face the prosaic wall opposite the frame before approaching the Ray to whom he had previously spoken.
“Ray, is it absolutely necessary that I be here?” Max inquired, gesturing towards the painting at which he had just been staring.
The other man—a light-haired, pale-skinned wisp of a man—gave Max a sympathetic smile. “Sorry,” he answered. “It’s just usually better that the featured artist attend these things. You know what I mean?”
“Not true. Think ‘touring Mona Lisa.’ I don’t think da Vinci was ever on board with those.”
Ray shrugged before shaping his next sentence. “I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but the people here really seem to enjoy that portrait of Lucy.”
A look of distaste flashed across Max’s face. “Don’t even say her name,” he stated flatly.
“She’s worried about you, you know. I saw her the other—”
“If she was worried, she would have helped. Let her break up with me if she sees fit, but I don’t see how ignoring the depressed man who is completely in love with you assists him in any way.”
Ray’s eyes were fixed on the tile floor of the gallery. “Sorry,” he repeated, softly. “I guess I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Damn straight.” Max’s voice was sharp, and with that said, he went around Ray, attempting to shuffle inconspicuously out of the glass door and leave behind the gallery’s white walls and glass façade for the next few months.
But not before being stopped by a group of apparent admirers of the great Max and his art.
“Max Garrison!” One beaming woman exclaimed, her hands clasped together in delight. “Oh, I’m so glad you finally came. Perhaps you remember me? Jane Colton?”
A fake, he thought. Oh, God, I don’t need one of these right now.
“Vaguely,” he answered, forcing a smile and extending a hand. “You’ll have to excuse me; my memory hasn’t been the best as of late.”
She nodded. “It’s not a problem,” Jane responded, shaking hands, before letting go to point at the portrait of Lucy. “That portrait, might I say, is magnificent! Tell me, will you be selling any of the art here?”
Glancing at the group from which Jane had separated, he noticed they were anticipating this answer as well. “I will be,” he reported, wary as always. “I have yet to decide which, though. This showing was rather unforeseen—on my part, at least.” He threw a dirty look Ray’s way.
Jane nodded. “Well, as soon as that information is released, know that I’ll be purchasing one.” Following this sentence, during which her head continued nodding, she grinned, and Max couldn’t help but thinking of her as being as fake as the plastic of which bobble-head dolls are made.
He thanked her. “I always appreciate it when someone loves my work as much as you do,” he lied. “I wish not to be short, but I was just leaving.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I’m sure a man such as yourself is always very busy!” She grinned again, they said their goodbyes, and Max rushed out the door before anyone else could speak to him.

It wasn’t long before Max reached his (geographical) goal, a classic filthy, atramentous ‘n’ seedy bar in his own neighborhood that he had been frequenting for the past few months. Being one of the regulars, now, no words were exchanged between he and the bartender, as the woman handed him his usual PBR. After wiping the counter, she finally spoke to him—his beer was halfway gone at this point.
“So,” she began. “You’re late tonight. And downing your booze faster than usual, I see.”
He checked his watch: nine-thirty p.m. “So I am.” He laughed. “I had to go to some stupid art show.”
She gazed at him curiously. “Isn’t that the one you’re featured in, tonight?” He nodded and continued to sip his drink. “And you thought it was stupid?”
“Yep. I’d enjoy them, Gina; I really would, if the people weren’t all so pretentious and fake. I mean,” he released a halting chuckle. “I’m pretentious enough on my own. I don’t need to be around those people.”
Gina nodded. “Well, pretentious is one way to say it, I guess. I won’t divulge my own thoughts on you, at least not tonight.” She winked and sauntered away to take care of a group of tourists that had just wondered into the bar.
Two beers later, Max had deemed himself inebriated enough to find a suitable replacement for Lucy.
An hour, two beers and five slaps across the face after that, he concluded that his judgment was incorrect and made his way back to his apartment (which, luckily, was just across the street).
Upon arriving, he sighted the form of a young man, with looks distinctly similar to Max’s, sleeping against his door. Drunk, the older male stumbled over and kicked him.
“Billy,” he whispered. “Billy, wake up.”
“Max?” The boy, Billy, stared bleary-eyed up at his brother. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Drinkin’.”
“Well, yeah. Come on, where are your keys?”
Max retrieved his keys from his pocket and, with the help of his brother, opened the door. Billy, after setting him on the couch, scavenged through the materials hidden throughout the kitchen section of the apartment. Fifteen minutes later, he had managed to make coffee, which he gave to Max and told him simply to “drink it. Now.”

“So, where’s Lucy, anyway?”
It was past one a.m. at this point, and a sobered Max and awakened Billy sat on an ancient, well-worn (‘well-loved,’ in Max’s words) couch. Max, sitting cross-legged in one corner, stared into the bottom of the coffee mug that he now held with both hands.
“She…left me.”
Billy looked around the apartment with a concerned look on his face, taking in the obvious feminine touch that remained. “Then why keep her stuff around here, still?”
Max silently refused to answer this question, taking a moment before speaking again. “Why are you here, anyway?”
Billy stared at his brother defiantly. “Mom and Dad kicked me out. Answer me. Why do you keep Lucy’s stuff?”
“What? But you’re only sixteen!”
Billy’s mood made a quick transition into disgust. “I’m only eight years younger than you, man, and that’s not much, so don’t be so condescending,” he threatened. “You’ve told me in the past that I’m ‘wise beyond my years’ or something, so don’t be like that.
“Anyway, they decided that I was too belligerent or something. I didn’t actually listen to them, but I think it had a lot to do with my not wanting to be a doctor, or one of those other jobs that would make a rich man out of me.” He continued to stare at Max, gauging his reaction. “I think they want me to follow the path you didn’t take. And then they said I took their ‘gifts’ for granted, and told me to try living on my own for a bit. So I said I would.”
Max scoffed. “And then you come to live with me.”
“Uh-huh.” Billy’s voice took a disinterested tone here. “Max, you’ve got to get rid of her stuff, it’s extremely disturbing.”
Max’s voice cracked as he spoke. “But…I love her.”
Billy, who had his legs resting on the makeshift coffee table of milk crates all this time, suddenly sat up straight. “Why did she leave, man?”
“Because I was depressed and cynical.”
“That’s mighty low.” Billy rose, seemingly to examine the canvas that had been perched on its easel for three months straight. “Man, this canvas is dusty. You’re in a funk, aren’t you?”
“If you want to put it that way.” Max followed him and picked up the eraser he had thrown earlier that night, and then pulled a pack of cigarettes from a nearby shelf. Billy, mouth agape, watched his brother light it and begin smoking. “You smoke now?”
“Billy-boy, I see you haven’t left the rhetorical questions behind.”
“But don’t you know that Mom would kill you?”
“I know.” Max smiled grimly. “Want one?”
Smirking, Billy pulled out his own pack and lighter. “No, I’m actually fine on my own, thank you very much.”
Max laughed honestly for the first time in months and sat back down, indicating that Billy should follow suit. “Belligerent, eh?” He stared at a ceiling tile and nodded. “Sounds about right.”
“You need to do something to fix this, man.” Billy studied his brother’s face. “The whole Lucy thing. You need to leave it behind.”
“Myself, I prefer the word ‘cantankerous’ to ‘belligerent.’ But our dear mother does love her ‘How to Raise Your Teenaged Son’ books and I’ve looked through them myself, and never once have I seen ‘cantankerous.’ But I’ve seen plenty of ‘belligerent,’ so I’m not surprised that she would use ‘belligerent.’” Max let his head roll on his neck, turning it to face his brother. “Now, what are you blathering about? ‘Lucy?’ I’m afraid I don’t know anyone named ‘Lucy.’” He paused to give a short cough. “See? I’m over her.”
Billy snorted. “Do you remember when you were sixteen and I was eight, and Grandma died?”
“Of course I remember that!”
“Yeah. I would hope so. Otherwise, you have way more issues than I thought you did.” Billy paused to take a drag on his cigarette. “I remember how angry you were. And you went on some crazy rampage and got rid of everything that reminded you of Grandma. Well, you loved Grandma, didn’t you?”
Max scowled. “I know what you are trying to convey, and let me assure you, it is not the same situation.”
“Oh? And why not? Enlighten me, my great brother.”
“Well…for one…Mom saved all that stuff.”
“Duh, because it was Grandma. But man, you’re borderline stalker like this. When did Lucy leave?”
“Once again, who is Lucy?” With Billy glaring at him, Max surrendered. “Okay, you’re right. Three months is long enough to grieve over an ex, especially one who left for reasons like that. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. I can’t just get up and say ‘okay, I’m going to be over her now’ and let that be the end of it.”
Billy burst into a fit of laughter, an out-of-character action for one with such ambiguous showings of emotion. Calming down, he miraculously managed to articulate his restless thoughts. “First of all—three months? God, Max, I’m about ready to throw out all this stuff for you.” He chuckled a little, and then added, “Also, I’m betting you tried to hit on some girls tonight, am I right?” He paused long enough to see Max blush. “Yeah, I am. Now, Max, if you somehow managed to bring a girl back here—and believe me, I’ve seen you drunk, so it would be a miracle for you to do that—do you really think she’ll stay if she sees all this stuff lying around?” Another pause. “And, don’t worry, this is my last point, do you realize that you’re depressed about being depressed? Indirectly, of course, but all the same,” he trailed off.
Max smiled to himself, but made no other motion. “Yeah, I suppose it is pretty dumb.”
He did not continue, and Billy, after giving him a sufficient amount of time to do so, spoke again. “Listen, I'm going to say this, and then I'll back off. I know how much you hate those artsy schmucks, but if you're going to be all ‘oh, woe is me,’ about that, then please get over Lucy.”
Max gave no indication that he had paid attention to Billy's words, focusing only on the bare wall opposite the couch. Then, pulling out his lighter again, he flicked the igniter. Observing the flame, one could spot a mischievous glint in his eye—though whether it was from his coming plan or the reflection of the flame was unclear. “I have an idea.”

So that was why, at three a.m., the Garrison brothers broke into a little-known Manhattan art gallery to ‘liberate’ a simple painting (“Lovely Lucille,” as Max had named it in a particularly amorous moment), leaving a note for the owner of the building, apologizing and promising to pay back the costs of any damages done, with the money that neither had.
Along the way, they acquired a plain metal trash receptacle, and some newspaper, just in case canvas was not as flammable as they predicted.
It turned out it was, along with a pink knitted blanket, an empty cardboard heart-shaped box, wilted flowers, two pairs of shoes that Lucy had left for no reason, five pairs that she forced Max into buying, two or three sketches of a sleeping Lucy, three extremely uncomfortable shirts that had just “looked so nice!” on Max, a few boxes of powdered whey protein, five floppy disks and eight CD-ROMs with photos saved on them, four or five romantic comedies on DVD (“Why did you put up with this stuff?” Billy asked at this point), and a strange pen with a giant pink puffball on top.
And, of course, a soft white eraser.