She kept having horrific nightmares of being an art teacher, forced to watch dozens of children ignore shading or any sort of color theory. What was worse would be the constant requirement of pretending that they were doing fabulously. As if their atrocious little drawings were worthy of being compared to the likes of Klimt or Vermeer. No one appreciated you until you were dead, and unfortunately, Matilde was still expected to live on for a few more decades. Therefore, as an artist, her only choice was to either face the former, or become the sellout that she was already morphing into. It would have been incredibly lovely to survive as some sort of anarchist, living in the outskirts and painting whatever pleased her. But she was too comfortable with a life indoors, and had settled into the routine of eyeing bridges and tall buildings with a certain lust. 

This time, her heavily tattooed arms were covered in various shades of pink and gold. She'd been commissioned to paint the anniversary gift for an unfulfilled housewife, its subject too childish to ever garner approval above the age of ten. The husband, however, had been overjoyed and paid generously. Matilde still struggled to be discovered by galleries, and though she had attained enough income to support herself, the woman detested having clients to appease. They were uncultured, and most likely the type of people who thought that Banksy was an underground artist. 

"C'est quoi ce bordel?," she almost yelled, finally noticing the rest of the group. She'd woken up with the worst back pain, and the reality of sand in her underwear finally settled in. Matilde lived nowhere near the beach. The others were unruly looking and worse off than she. Grass and dirt had been caked into their clothing while sand seemed to be the only offending medium on her. One character stood out somehow familiarly, and Matilde could remember the Spanish model from several magazines. 

Matilde wasn't sure whether to run off or not, and could feel her legs twitch in anticipation. She'd seen enough movies to know about what trafficking was, and looked around for any other suspicious characters. Bags filled, those that surrounded her seemed almost ready for the trip. Clearly, the young woman was on her own as she searched her own pockets. There was almost nothing to her name apart from a few coins, and Matilde wasn't even sure if she was still in France.