“I’ve got a job,” my artist wife said, rushing into the living room of our fourth-floor walk-up apartment shortly after our honeymoon and long before the days of her established art business.

I know, I thought. You’ve been working customer service at the local department store in our suburban mall for over a year. 

“A new job,” she continued, after my bewildered look betrayed my thoughts. “It’s gonna be awesome.”

“Oh really?” I asked. “Where?”

DeSerres,” she said.

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