There’s a moment—barely—when you see both ocean and bay from the 280 as it mills north near Millbrae, the waters flash what they know of daylight, and you register being a sort of gliding porch before dunking back under cypress
Because she paints barefoot, she’s barefoot in his painting of her painting. Well, not painting, but modeling for him as the painter she is and gazing toward her ostensible model,