By the time my kids are asleep and the dishwasher starts its hum, I’m only just beginning my night. My studio smells of oil pastels and pencil sharpenings. Sixteen sketches sit in a loose pile on my desk – faces of lesbians I’ve met over the past few months. Each sketch carries a story that’s about to spill out of me. On the easel, another face waits. I dip a brush into ink, trace the line of her jaw, and the quiet of the house folds around me. From the next room, my wife turns a page in her book.