"Trying was the key word there, doll," Angel said dryly. "I can't tell where the canvas ends so more paint goes on the wall behind my easel than anywhere. And I have no clue what the colors look like. It sucks. It fucking sucks, that's what."
It vaguely occurred to him that while he sat here unloading on her, that her life had been decidedly worse than his. "Are you still playing? You were amazing... a true talent." And she was. Music had been her thing, much as painting had been his. It connected them to the arts and each other.
"Have you told your parents? Other friends?" Angel wished she had contacted him. It would have at least helped him with the guilt he felt over what happened. If only he hadn't let her drive at home after their date. What kind of pseudo-boyfriend had he been to let her drive herself home?