At half past four, Chloe pushed her mahogany chair back from the table and walked toward the bay window nook, her eyes glued to her phone.

She stepped right onto Toby’s watercolor paper, her heavy leather boot landing squarely on the blue stone arch he had spent forty minutes painting.

Toby looked up from his wooden stool, his paintbrush frozen an inch above the water jar.

“Chloe, you’re standing on my bridge,” Toby whispered.

Chloe didn’t shift her weight or look down.

Instead, she twisted her leather heel into the thick white paper, grinding the wet paint into the hardwood floor until the sheet tore into jagged pieces with a sharp ripping sound.

The left side of the drawing stayed trapped under her boot while the right side crumpled against the carved white baseboard.