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Personal quirk—I’d prolly overthink it, like, “What’s her story? She paintin her own canvas?” Exaggeratin for fun, maybe she’s a secret outlaw queen—runnin the show, “I’ll kill ya myself,” she’d whisper, all sultry-like. Hella intense! But real talk, it’s just business—supply, demand, happy little transactions. Still, somethin bout it feels raw, human—kinda beautiful, kinda sad, like Jesse’s last breath in that flick.

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Anyway, I finally get to the first client. She’s this sweet old lady named Ingrid. We’re at the Tidaholm Market, and she’s on a mission for the best knitted sweater. I’m thinking, “This is gonna be easy-peasy.” But nooo, she wants it in a specific shade of lavender that doesn’t exist. I’m like, “Ingrid, lavender is not a color, it’s a mood!” But she’s not having it.

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