Billy didn't pick at anything but his own music, and with that and that alone he was unforgiving and ruthless. Art was different. Especially pictures. He either liked the whole, or he did not. He either felt it, or he did not. Even if he had hated everything, he probably would have bought one to make it worth the guy's trouble--and maybe to make a friend. Then he would have stuck it somewhere out of the way. Fortunately he really liked Simon's stuff, and he was serious about wanting him to hang it.
"I've got this limeade that's almost like the real thing," Billy said, shuffling into the kitchen and pulling at the fridge until it gave way. He almost dropped the cane but he recovered in time. "Sticks," he observed, making a mental note to do something about it. "Still adapting," he said, smiling at Simon. "I'm..." he paused. "Harrison," he said, slowly. "But my friends call me Billy." He was trying to avoid the attention of the press, and he really didn't want them camping on his doorstep, but maybe they would have better things to write about until he got back in the business.
"Would you mind grabbing a couple glasses from that cupboard over there?" He put the oversized plastic bottle on the counter, then he closed the fridge.