They were having a discussion about the meaning of the phrase "fine artist."
Did it make a difference, for example, that one favored dioramas and the other,
embroidery? Was the nomenclature the same for someone fashioning lopsided bowls
from outdated Glamour magazines and another who wielded X-acto knives and sliced
hair-thin lines from a vintage National Geographic? They searched for a distinction,
each arguing their cause as they sat on the porch after a long day at the mercy of their work
and the evening light slid down the length of the windows and their glasses emptied
to scant chips of ice. They were getting nowhere. Neither would bow to the other's vision
or give up their own. There was nothing to do but be exactly who they were.
"To us," they said, and the toast stretched, nameless as beauty, into the quiet street.