six

When we piled out of the car, I headed straight for my studio with a gallon of water and a handful of pills prescribed to heal a nuclear meltdown of the stomach lining. Trina and Jonathan curled up on the couch in the living room, and Charlie made good on his promise to install a security system. I had peeked in on Becky managing a bolt of luminous pink fabric. I was not encouraged.

“Pink, huh?”

Becky had spit a straight pin out of her mouth onto the floor and smiled. “Trust me.”

I dipped my brush in a dollop of brown oil paint. I mixed in a smidge of black and added tone with a hint of red. I painted for three solid hours with odd intervals of rest just to make the doctors happy. By the end, I was left with five canvases of a male’s head from the crown to the brow. The mop of hair appeared in various stages of styling, from a Caesar to a middle part, left part, right part, and finally swept back like a Wall Street fund manager. I didn’t know where these images were taking me, and I was too tired to care. I stretched out on an old futon in the corner of the studio and prayed for a solid eight.

–––

The door to the attic studio was too old for a traditional doorknob, and the sound of the cast-iron latch was unmistakable even in my deep sleep. I struggled to draw my battered body from its well-deserved slumber. The creaking floorboards scratched my conscience. I sprung up like a jack-in-the-box. The motion was extreme given the condition of my abdomen, and I cried out in a jumble of pain and fear. I tumbled on to the floor and skittered on all fours toward my easel. The moon splashed just enough light ahead for me to locate my bucket of brushes soaking in turpentine. I stretched for the can and a defensive weapon, but not before a hand grabbed my wrist.

“Ce, it’s me.” Charlie knelt down and pried my fingers from the can. “Man, you are one tough bitch.”

“I thought you wanted to kill me.”

“I came close at the hospital today.”

“And now?”

“Now that I’ve saved myself from permanent blindness?” Charlie pushed the can of turpentine safely under the easel. “Come on, let’s sit.”

We sat shoulder to shoulder on the bed and before long I could feel Charlie’s chest heaving in an uneven rhythm.

“You can’t cry or I’ll lose it. I swear, don’t fucking do this to me,” I said.

He turned his head toward me, and I recognized the tilt as if it were the junior prom. He kissed me so hard I had to grab the back of the futon for support. I drew my thigh across his lap and straddled him before he could change his mind.

“This is a bad idea,” I gasped between heated breaths.

“I was hoping for bad,” Charlie responded, running his hands under my shirt.

“Is this going to piss off your girlfriends?”

“Becky’s a fling.”

“Who else?”

“The red-headed barista from Starbucks.”

“How ’bout the bartender from Garvin’s Pub?”

“She’ll be livid.”

I gave in to Charlie as easily as sliding into a favorite pair of jeans. I couldn’t count the years clearly in my condition, but I guessed our near-decade dry spell was about to end. I was pleasantly surprised we’d both learned a thing or two since our high school grope fests.

“Your boobs are bigger.” Charlie yanked my shirt over my head and tossed it across the bed.

“Your dick isn’t.”

“I still love you, CeCe,” he said, breathing hard on my neck.

It wasn’t sincere the first time I’d heard him say it, either.