“But all you do anymore is commercial crap,” protests Andrei. “What happened to your old work, in black and white?” He yanks a book off the shelf, fans it. “This! The stuff that came from–”
“The heart?” says Verity, and chokes a giggle. “Oh, please finish that sentence. And my ‘commercial work’ is at least as valid as overexposed pictures of a butter churn by a fencepost.”
“It’s selling out!”
“It’s my talent, used as I like, with money on top,” says Verity. “How long is this going to be an issue?”
“Until you kick me off your couch,” sniffs Andrei.