Page 101 of Painting Celia

“Why did the water rise? Are we going to drown?”

Him and his questions.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But painting helps, right? I should have seen you needed to do it too. I’ll do better.”

“It’s not about you,” she murmured against his chest. She felt him chuckle under his breath.

“You keep saying that, but you put me in your painting.”

So she had. Oh, how familiar he was. The soft thump of his heartbeat against her ear, the scent of his skin, the steely harbor of his arms. León wasn’t easy to push away.

A flood of gratitude and comfort washed through her. She could feel it flow from her chest outward, filling her skin. Bubbling light sluiced through the numbness, leaving her floating and weak. No matter. León would shore her up.

“Reinita,” he said, “tell me what will help.”

Falling in love felt nothing like she’d expected.

“I want to tell you,” she whispered. “About the bridge, about everything.”

She felt his chest swell against her.

•••

There was no more painting that day nor the next. Celia had spilled out her story, fidgeting in a desperate little ball as León cradled her on the couch. He calmly collected each new layer and texture, filling in her picture. The flood of colors dammed inside her broke like a wave, hundreds of paintings there for him.

As her story stilled, he’d vowed to help her find this outlet she wanted. Anything to put some warmth back in her eyes.

At midday, his paintings were picked up.

After sunset, they swam quietly in the dark.

By morning, she was more herself.

When the next afternoon shone its great temporary orange triangles on her walls, it was León’s turn to feel vulnerable. His colors already lived outside him, and they’d be on display tonight.

They drove to the exhibition gala at dusk, walking into the lofty gallery, lights infusing artworks on warm brick walls and low white plinths.

León tucked Celia’s hand firmly under his arm. She’d resisted coming tonight, not adamantly, but enough to make them late. Her eyes were still a little sad and somber, but she hadn’t put on her public mask. Good girl.

A muted throng glided through the converted warehouse, soft words being exchanged as couples flowed from one spotlighted artwork to another. He breathed it in. These people cared about art. They felt it.

He squeezed Celia’s arm with his and looked down at her. His quiet little muse. He’d show her the entire creative world.

Celia silently gestured to the far corner of the front room, where the blue painting glowed. His heart hung on that wall. A small knot of people stood nearby. Did they like it? Would they understand?

León bounced just a tiny bit.

Andrew rounded an interior corner, his face lighting up when he clocked them near the door. He threaded his way through the crowd.

“Hey!” he said. “I didn’t know if you were coming.”

“And miss my LA debut? Please.”

“Celia, girl,” Andrew took her free hand in his, “I’m so sorry.”

León nodded. Good, she was owed an apology from this quarter too.

“Are you better?” Andrew continued, uncharacteristically anxious. “I want to explain.”

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