The Girl in the Painting

by Monroe, Max

  “You don’t have to do that now. You’re deserving of this, and you’re not the reason for their misfortune. It’s just a part of life.”

  “I know, Doc. Or, at least, I’m trying to. But if I don’t write it now, I don’t know that I’ll ever properly put into words what this means to me. I might forget… I’m afraid I’ll forget what this is like. What it’s like to be a man…” I choke on the words, and emotion I didn’t know I still had bubbles up.

  Dr. Smith is nice enough to pretend he doesn’t notice.

  “Do you want me to write it for you?”

  “No,” I say, my voice softly dancing around the emotion in my throat. “I need to be the one who writes it.”

  Without question, he hands me a sheet of paper and a pen and promises to make sure it gets to the proper people at the donor organization when I’m done.

  It doesn’t matter that I can’t see the paper or the pen.

  I need to write this down even if it’s a fucking mess of words.

  I trace the edges of the page with my fingertip and guide my pen to the top left corner of the sheet of paper. Using my free hand as a guide for straight lines and to prevent myself from writing words on top of each other, I bleed words onto the page just like I used to bleed colors onto the canvas. There’s no overthinking or questioning; it just is.

  The day is a gift whether the surgery is a success or not, and I want the people who loved my donor to know that.

  Four Years Later

  Ansel

  Three knocks rap against the closed door of my studio, and I sigh.

  Apparently, my assistant doesn’t understand what no distractions means. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Lucy’s priorities have nothing to do with her role as my assistant. Half the time, people who come to my studio don’t even realize she works here. They probably just assume she’s some sort of social media influencer wasting time in my lobby by taking cleavage shots.

  Another two knocks ring out, and I ignore whoever is on the other side and focus my gaze back on the half-painted canvas in front of me.

  As if my hand is on autopilot, I watch as it gently creates the soft lines of her hair. Stroke after stroke, dark brown and honey-beige and gold combine to make the flowing locks that cascade down her back.

  Eventually, though, the knocks grow so persistent that I can hardly follow the rhythm of the soft background music serving as a medium for my artistic exploration.

  Fucking Lucy.

  “Go away!” I call over my shoulder, but the answering chuckle is not an annoyed feminine laugh. No. It’s husky and deep and rough around the edges.

  “Ans, it’s Nigel,” the disturbance answers back.

  Nigel Marx. We grew up together on the outskirts of the Bronx and found our way into the art world during our college years. Where I’ve always had an innate ability to create, Nigel has a natural talent for seeking out beauty.

  If anyone can find art worth seeing, it’s Nigel. Or Nye, as I’ve grown to call him over the years.

  Even though he’s one of my oldest friends, I groan and contemplate at least ten different ways to tell him to fuck off. I may not be as grumpy as I was before the surgery, but being interrupted during the creative process brings me as close to that level of aggravation as I come these days.

  But even the bad-tempered side of my personality knows a verbal middle finger is unwarranted.

  Technically speaking, it’s probably not even his fault. My assistant is undoubtedly too busy posting pictures of her new nose job on Instagram to follow my instructions and man the reception desk in the front.

  So, eventually, I set my brush down beside my paints, move the canvas into the small, hidden nook near the windows, and tell him to come inside.

  Dressed in a sharp black suit and tie, Nigel strides in as I head over to the sink to wash the dried paint off my hands.

  “Did I interrupt?” he asks, and I glance at him over my shoulder.

  “Yep.”

  A big, hearty laugh escapes his throat. “You don’t even want to pretend I’m not being a huge inconvenience to you right now?”

  “Pretty sure you know me better than that,” I say with a grin and swipe the extra moisture off my hands onto my jeans. “I’m not a beat-around-the-bush kind of guy, Nigel.”

  He grins at that.

  “What brought about this gloriously annoying visit of yours today?”

  “Just want to make sure you’re ready for the big opening,” he says and slides his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. I don’t miss the way he takes it upon himself to peruse my studio, his eyes taking in all of the empty canvases stacked in the corner and the finished works scattered along the floor and the walls.

  “By all means, please feel free to browse. You know how much I love that.”

  He ignores my jab completely. “So, can I count on you to be there?”

  “Be where?”

  “You know where, you bastard.” He glares. “Does January 31st ring a bell? The big exhibition some of us have been working so hard on.”

  “If I weren’t such a big person, I wouldn’t be able to ignore the fact that you’re insinuating I, the artist, haven’t done any work for the show.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant. Stop trying to distract me.”

  Now it’s my turn to make a show of my new eyes’ ability to move. “We’ve already been through this, man. There’s no reason for me to be there.”

  Unconvinced, Nye presses on. “It’s your opening, Ans. You need to be there.”

  “I don’t need to be anywhere.”

  “Tell me this…why wouldn’t you want to be there? This is your first exhibition in five years. Since before the accident. This is huge. If anything, you should be there to celebrate that you’re painting again. That you’re alive.”

  And just like that, he’s answered his own question. He just doesn’t know it.

  Circuslike fanfare and a giant spotlight on my tragic past are the last things I want. I just want to paint without all of the fucking hoopla.

  “How about this? I’ll drink a glass of whiskey tonight to celebrate. I’ll even give myself a special toast.”

  “If you drink that glass of whiskey inside my gallery, on the night of your opening, then we have a deal.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “Not happening.”

  “The press will be there. Your fans will be there. People want to see you. They want to talk to you. Interview you. Why don’t you want to be there?”

  “For those exact fucking reasons, Nye,” I answer honestly. “While I’m thankful people still want to see my art, I don’t need the ego trip that comes with gallery openings and interviews. I don’t need fans kissing my ass, and I sure as fuck don’t need rich investors schmoozing me up because it makes them think they’ll have a better shot at getting their greedy hands on one of my paintings.”

  Silence stretches between us, and I hope that means Nigel has finally come to terms with the reality of my absence at the opening.

  Before the accident, I would’ve been there in a heartbeat. I would’ve been the guy with the big fucking ego and some random, superficially beautiful model attached to my arm. The douchebag looking at everyone inside that gallery and mentally giving myself a pat on the back.

  But I’m not that guy anymore. I haven’t been that guy since the day I went blind.

  Do I claim to be the world’s happiest, most-together guy? Fuck no. Like I said, on my best day, I’m still an asshole. But after living in the dark for what felt like an eternity, I’ve at least realized a few things.

  For one, money, success—material shit—doesn’t mean a fucking thing.

  You can’t buy happiness.

  And, two? Friends are better to have than fans. Friends stick with you no matter what.

  “Okay.” Nigel’s voice breaks our silence. “Fine. I won’t ask you again.”

  I grin. “That sounds like a truly brilliant idea.”

&n
bsp; “Why haven’t I seen this one?”

  I follow his gaze to the far corner of my studio, and instantly, I know which painting he’s talking about. My chest tightens with unease. I can’t believe I left that one out in the open like this…

  I run a hand through my hair and try to make myself sound at least somewhat disinterested. “Because it wasn’t a painting I wanted to put in the exhibition.”

  My voice sounds slightly higher pitched, even to my own ears. Dammit.

  About a year after my transplant, Dr. Smith cleared me to go back to my normal life—back to painting. I found myself inside this studio with a brush in my hand and a beautiful girl in my mind.

  Crystal-blue eyes, dark, dimensional hair, and dimpled cheeks, every detail of her face and features vivid to the point of precision.

  I couldn’t stop picturing her. The way her full lips appear when they’re curled into a smile. The way she looks mid-laugh. The way her eyes light up beneath the sun.

  She was all I could see, this girl I’ve never met before, this girl I’ve never actually seen.

  She was the first thing I painted after the transplant, and she’s been locked inside my mind ever since—for nearly three years, to be exact.

  But who’s counting, right?

  I nearly snort out loud. The truth is, my obsession is nearly pathetic and almost certainly unhealthy. But I can’t seem to stop myself.

  “This is…stunning,” he says quietly as his eyes rake over the canvas. “She’s stunning.”

  His words, while holding no harm or ill will, make me feel incredibly uncomfortable.

  Like I need to shield her from his eyes. I feel too vulnerable. Too raw.

  Nigel turns to meet my eyes. “Why didn’t you want to put this one in the exhibition?”

  “I don’t know.” Because it’s too special to me.

  He looks at the painting for a long moment before moving his eyes back to mine. “Should I know who she is?”

  “No.”

  A figment of my imagination?

  Some kind of angel muse?

  I don’t know, but I can’t stop painting her.

  “Is this the only one of her?”

  “Yes,” I flat out lie. Besides the one he’s looking at, there are another four finished canvases hidden away and at least seven in progress. But I’m already pissed enough at myself for leaving this one out for him to see.

  Strange and most likely fucking insane, I know, but it’s the reality.

  “You need to add this one to the exhibition.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Your other works are amazing, but this, it’s something else, Ans,” he says and glances back at the painting. “It belongs in the exhibition.”

  Silence stretches between us, and I’m torn about what to say.

  Fuck no seems inappropriately callous, but I’m having a hell of a time coming up with any other words.

  The artist inside of me agrees with his assessment. That painting—and the other paintings of her—is special.

  She draws the viewer in just as she’s done with me, like a mermaid luring sailors to their deaths.

  But everything else inside me wants to keep her to myself.

  “Ans, people need to see this painting,” Nye urges.

  I let out a deep exhale. “I don’t know…”

  “Ans, this one has to be in the show.” His gaze is steady, unwavering. “You and I both know it would be a fucking travesty if it weren’t in there.”

  My back tenses, but for some reason, the word “Okay” slips from my lips.

  My stomach churns and my mind races and I don’t know why I’m agreeing, but I am. I don’t know why I feel sick over the prospect of other people seeing this painting, but I do.

  The way I’m feeling, the way my emotions intertwine with her paintings, is a complete mystery to me.

  Just like her.

  Indy

  The hardest part about being a music teacher at Great Elm in the Bronx is making lesson plans.

  Okay, that’s a lie, since the actual hardest part is keeping a room full of six-year-olds from burning down the classroom. Second-hardest is keeping eighth-graders from sticking their tongues down each other’s throats, and third-hardest is making lesson plans.

  I’m thirty years old, have been teaching for nearly two years, and I still have days when I can feel my eggs drying up in self-defense.

  Seriously. I don’t have kids of my own yet, but I send out nightly prayers to all of the moms and dads out there who have to spend the night under the same roof as some of these heathens.

  The cursor on my Word doc flashes on the screen, and I put my head in my hands and watch the way a few loose pieces of my brown hair rise up into the air with the whoosh of breath that leaves my lungs.

  Why did I think this was a good idea again?

  I find “Für Elise” in my iTunes Library and hit play. If anyone can knock my ass into gear, it’s Beethoven. And if he doesn’t work, I’ll make friends with Chopin or Erik Satie.

  Usually, music is my saving grace in everything.

  Horrible, awful day? Music.

  Need to file my taxes? Music.

  Started my period? Music. Music. Music.

  It holds the key to my mind, my emotions, and my heart.

  But, apparently, someone changed the locks because not even that is helping today.

  I’ve been working on these lesson plans for my music classes for the past three hours, and I’m at a point where I might resort to banging my head against the wall. The vital clause in my lease contract that states my landlord, Betty, would lose her shit if I put a hole in the drywall is about the only thing that holds me back.

  Literally. It says that. Renter agrees to hold $1000 in escrow pending a damage inspection at move-out. Landlord does not agree not to lose her shit.

  Fine. I made the last sentence up, but if you’d met Betty, you’d understand.

  “Mornin’, babe. Coffee ready?”

  I pause my music and squint my eyes at my boyfriend Matt as he walks into the kitchen. “Just brewed a fresh pot about twenty minutes ago.”

  “Fantastic,” he says, rubs the sleep out of his eyes, and shuffles toward the kitchen counter. “Need a top off?”

  I glance down at the nearly empty mug beside my laptop. “Yes, please.”

  It will be my third—or is it fourth?—cup of coffee of the day, but it’s a necessary evil when you wake up before the sun.

  Sadly, I’m not normally such an early riser. I prefer days where circadian rhythm is the only clock I have to answer to, but my job doesn’t allow it.

  Today, though… Today, I was already awake.

  By the time the clock struck four, I threw in the towel, took a shower, and attempted to start my day.

  Lessons plans that don’t even really need revamping have been switched and reorganized five times, and I’m well on my way to a world record in coffee consumption.

  But avoiding your insanity is much easier than facing the crazy train head on.

  My boyfriend’s hazel eyes sparkle as he grins at me from across the white marble-top island of my kitchen. Matt is what most would call classically handsome. With sandy blond hair and kissable lips, he reminds me of a Fight Club Brad Pitt, but replace the bad-boy vibes with softer lines and a kind face.

  Without another word, he fills my white mug, and the steam from the hot brew rises and disappears into the air.

  Before Matt can add sugar or cream to my mug, I hop out of my seat and finish the job.

  He laughs and bumps my hip with his as he pours himself a cup. “You don’t trust me?”

  I shake my head on a smile. “Not with my coffee, I don’t.”

  Too much sugar. Too much cream. Too much sugar and cream. No matter how hard he may try, my boyfriend of just over a year can never seem to get my coffee just right.

  As I settle back into the seat in front of my laptop, he laughs off my teas
ing criticism and tops off his cream and sugar with a little dribble of coffee.

  I’m not sure why he even bothers.

  “What’s your schedule like today?” he asks, leaning against the counter and taking a sip from his mug. “Any lessons after school?”

  Not only am I music teacher for a little private school in the Bronx, but I also teach after-school music lessons. Piano, clarinet, guitar, you name it. My dad is a musician himself, and life with him readied me to play just about anything.

  “I should be done around five or so.”

  “Dinner later, then?”

  My ears perk up, and my tongue lolls out like a puppy. “The little Mexican restaurant across the street from your office?”

  Matt’s office is in Manhattan, my job is in the Bronx, and with my apartment all the way in Brooklyn, I spend a large part of my days in the Bermuda Triangle of hellish commutes. I’d damn near take a train to the moon for a chance to eat at the little Mexican restaurant by the name of El Torro, though.

  Hands down, the best guac and tacos that have ever graced my taste buds.

  “Consider it a date.” He smiles and kisses my cheek just before grabbing the remote for the small TV in the kitchen and flipping on CNN.

  Internally, I groan.

  I loathe starting my day like this, with the harsh sounds of reality and all of the awful things going on in the world smacking me right in the face.

  But Matt loves it. Something about being informed and shit. I’d much rather live in a bubble, thank you very much.

  Fortunately, it’s a rarity for him to stay at my place during the week, and when he’s here on the weekends, I can avoid the onslaught of news trauma by getting out of bed an hour or so later than him.

  Plus, he travels a lot for his job. It’s not uncommon for him to be on the road for weeks at a time.

  I’m not entirely sure what he does, but I know it has something to do with big companies and computer software. According to his boss, whom I met at the Christmas party last December, he’s a thirty-three-year-old tech wiz. I like to think of him as the Chandler Bing of my alternate Friends universe.

  “We have exclusive breaking news,” the male news anchor announces on the television, and I cringe and roll my eyes.