I lower myself down next to her, watching her put the last stroke on her peacock all blue and green and gold.
She picked at her skirt, pulling it against her legs and leaning slightly forward, attempting to conceal a bit of weight gain that she made too big a deal of. It was unlikely that anybody noticed.
“I think I’m going to call the cops. I’m really starting to freak out.”
One more block to go. Three flights after that.
Then it was dark, and Karen couldn’t see into the eyes of a man she had lived with for nearly two years and had been cheating on her, she was certain, for most of that time.
Though even after I painted their divorce, I had to admit their strides seemed jaunty, coordinated in a melodic way she and I never could figure out.
All I see is red now. Deep, pulsating red.
Beyond a few selfies and some emails, they didn’t know the man. A clean bill of health, they had that. But nothing else, really.
I do not tell my father what I do in the evening, my painting. I dream to be something elusive, and I fear that maddens him. Yet I continue. Because I cannot stop.
The departures board in the train terminal is an imposing thing. It’s your only source of information in the whole place. Ticket holders stand there staring, waiting for the shuffling clicks of its mechanism.