Monica stepped back from her canvas and viewed it with a critical eye.
“I can’t quite get the perspective right on this one,” she shook her head.
“Let me see,” Marcello maneuvered around her in the tight space. He studied the canvas of deep blues, dark purples, and inky black that seemed to shift in front of his eyes. “Actually, I think you’re doing great,” he gazed out the ship’s window at her subject. “After all, it is a wormhole you’re painting.”
(I had such fun writing this one. I knew the “perspective” would be of something unusual as soon as I read the prompt. For an instant, perspective meant someone’s point-of-view in a conversation, and then it shifted straight into the arts [where I like to live anyway]. The challenge of this was to not give away where they were until almost at the end. I hope I succeeded. What do you think?)