Doesn't It Just Figure

I have been agonizing for days now, trying to get this gentleman's likeness to resemble his habitual mien. How frustrating -- little to no success initially -- Faulkner seemed to willfully evade the prowess of my brush strokes.

It was a nondescript, inconsequential painting that I had forgotten about which seemed to turn the tides of fortune back my way. Once Faulkner saw the small sketch, he seemed transfixed; ironically his fixation on the painting restored what I knew to be his customary animation.

I hastily set to work -- impatient was I to make up lost time when my subject unwittingly refused to cooperate by assuming a demeanor he fancied would reflect his physiognomical characteristics to best advantage. At first Faulkner set me quite at my ease by combining his current unselfconscious air with what seemed to be a charming travel tale.

Time flew; I was now racing the sun as Faulkner's likeness finally began to assume its own personality on my canvas. All seemed well until -- I found out what Faulkner had been doing on that tawdry little street depicted on my canvas. Gambling!! And winning!! The room began to swim; I heard the details of his story imperfectly now that he revealed that he had broken the bank. Broken!! How like this I felt; at once I realized that I could have charged so much more for this commission that I had. Had I only played MY hand at bit more steadily, I could have been painting my last portrait of a nondescript "gentleman"; I could have been . . . well, at least far richer than I would be once I finished this painting.

All at once I hated the canvas; nay, more than that, I hated Faulkner . . .