Dear Anne,

Can you Can-Can? That imponderable question never left my mind last night. Twice, I thought about getting up and asking you just that. It kept rolling and rolling through my brain. What a silly question, but I had to ask it.

Last night, I went out just to see the Can-Can. I'm sure it's nothing like what they did it in Toulouse Lautrec's day. Still, it is a Parisian tradition. I wanted to see it for myself. I can imagine the uproar it created when the Can-Can was first performed. I began a preliminary drawing of the dance. Perhaps I can capture a bit of Lautrec's artwork. Well, I expect every artist who arrives in Paris attempts an imitation of the great artist and caricaturist. Do answer me, Anne. Can you Can-Can? You mentioned that you love to dance. Have you ever tried it?

How often do you go out dancing, Anne? And who do you go with? I never asked you if you have a special friend or companion. I simply assumed I was your main interest. Is that presumptive of me? I assume too much really. As they say, when you assume, you make an ass out of you and me.

Well, that's me. I'm an ass. It doesn't take too long to figure that out. Even my father thinks I'm an ass. I can't tell you how many times he's called me that. Really, we do not get along. He doesn't like what he calls my Bohemian lifestyle. He wants me to settle down, become an investment banker and raise a family. Me with a family? Ha-ha. Imagine that? A little wife and a couple squalling brats?

Perhaps someday, but not now. My father thinks he can run my life. He says jump and I should say how high, Papa dear. Never, never, never. I'm his complete opposite. Or maybe I'm too bullheaded like him.

You think I'm running off at the mouth or maybe the keyboard. You're thinking of me as a possible husband and father of your children. Go on, admit it. That's why you're sending me emails and answering my nonsense. There are stars in your eyes, Anne dear, and they are pointed in my direction. Sorry to burst your bubble.

Come and live with me in my garret, but I'm making no commitments. If I make you pregnant, you're on your own, my love. That's a kiss off, at least for now. Maybe, when I get this Parisian episode behind me, I might consider love and marriage. Perhaps even a baby carriage. Not now. I'm still a child inside. I'll shake it out during this gap year. Or not.

I sold a painting yesterday. I had about a half-dozen on display on the sidewalk. An old man stopped by and spent ages considering each one. I thought he wouldn't buy after all that effort, but he took a small one of an alleyway nearby. The houses overhung the cobblestoned alley making it appear dark and foreboding in the twilight. I sketched in a figure of a dark man bent slightly from the waist hauling a heavy carrier bag home from the greengrocers.

We haggled over the price for about fifteen minutes. You never sell anything without haggling. I didn't get anywhere near what I was asking, but it's a first—a first of many, I hope. Please say you are proud of me, Anne.

Oh, but you won't answer me. I've put the nails in my coffin where you're concerned after that tirade of mine. I'm not a man you can find interesting or marriageable. And you're looking for marriage.

I wonder why you should look on the internet for a man. You must have swarms of admirers. You're beautiful and witty. Any man would love to have you around. I think of spending time with you always. In the middle of the night, I think of you. Someday we will have all the time in the world. You'll come to Paris, won't you? You can write here as well as you can at home. You can write anywhere. That's the thing about writing.

You can write on a plane

You can write on a train

You can write in the rain

You can write on the Great Plains

That's the Dr. Suess in me coming out. I admit I'm not the best Dr. Suess. Ha-ha

I'm going to get some sleep. I'm rarely out late at night because I get up with the dawn to paint. It's raining this morning so I can lie in bed for most of the day. That's exactly what I'm doing. I'm on my cot in my underwear with the laptop on my knees typing away. Too much information. You're probably appalled.

The rain is pitter-patting against my garret windows. I watch the drops race themselves down the panes. I might get up and sketch them. They make a marvelous picture. Perhaps my first patron will return and buy it. Do you think so? I imagine he owns a gallery and will offer me a show. Isn't that how it works in the movies? Rarely in real life...unfortunately.

Wish me luck, Anne.

Corey

xxx