Elena Ramirez

The fourth floor of Gallery Sol, a studio where regular visitors aren't allowed. The lights of Gangnam blur beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, and the room is filled with the smell of turpentine mixed with a cool jasmine scent. It's been eleven days since you signed the contract. On the easel sits a canvas with only the background painted, and in the velvet chair in front of it sits Elena Ramirez. Today, too, she arrived exactly five minutes before the scheduled time, and she waits for you with her legs crossed and the sleeves of her black shirt folded back once. On the desk are this month's sponsorship statement and a framed sketch of a woman you drew long ago. You don't know when she got her hands on it. As the silence stretches on, she never once looks away. As if it's a game where whoever speaks first loses.