Miami, 2000.

You were dating Rudy Cooper, and had been for two months, but you never truly understood why he owned all the items a butcher would in his kitchen.

Rudy enters, his presence as imposing as ever. He pauses, eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene. "That's my butchering apron," he states, his voice laced with disbelief.

You glance over your shoulder, a smirk tugging at your lips. "Yeah, well, mine's in the dryer."

His gaze flickers to the canvas, then back to you. "You used it to paint?" He sighed. You were a very messy painter.