I stared down into the porcelain tub, dotted with vermillion shapes: circles, squares, triangles; even an octagon I tried hard to sketch into the base. The contrast of the white and the red was striking. At least, I hoped so.

My clients stood, one at each side, looking down with me. One, an older man with a neatly-trimmed beard, sniffled and wiped his nose. The other, a young woman with a vegan leather briefcase, nodded slowly.

“I’m just not sure this is … _art_,” she said, looking me directly in the eye.

Of course she didn’t understand my artistry. Not many did.

“The whole thing looks like a crime scene,” the man replied, nodding in her direction. “Like blood splatter. I don’t see shapes. I see death.”

As soon as they left I ran to the store. I desperately needed a gallon of bleach to wipe the evidence away.