Page 44 of Error Handling

The carpet pulls up easily. Too easily. Upon further inspection, I realize much of the tack strip has rotted into a dark, brittle mess. I’ll have to replace it, which is fine, just unexpected.

I sit back on my heels and sigh. Music drifts from the back porch, too faint to decipher. When I work alone, I crank Kongos, Joywave, or any other bands that sound good loud. Sarah probably wouldn’t appreciate that. She also probably won’t appreciate the banging I’m about to do to remove the areas of the tack strip that are still intact.

I stand, make my way through the kitchen, and poke my head into the enclosed porch. Sarah stands in front of her oil painting with her brow furrowed and her hands on her hips. Her smock brushes her ankles, mostly covering her casual T-shirt and shorts.

She’s barefoot.

I resist the urge to ask her if she’s cold. Professional relationships do not involve inquiries about personal comfort.

“I’m about to make some noise,” I say.

She looks at me and smiles. It nearly shatters me, but I maintain my composure. Somehow. “Sorry if it ruins your concentration.”

“There’s nothing you can do to ruin what I’ve already ruined.” She waves a noncommittal hand at her canvas. The angle of her easel shields her work.

The porch was enclosed with minimal thought given to quality or aesthetics. Someone installed cheap wood paneling and low-quality windows, the kind that keep the weather out but are not intended to save the planet. Sarah covered most of the concrete floor in mismatched bohemian carpets, and she pulled in a secondhand couch, sprucing it up with colorful blankets.

Her personal touches make the room inviting. Her presence helps with that as well.

“Do you mind if I take a look?” I can offer my artistic opinion while maintaining a professional relationship.

“Sure. But don’t laugh.”

I round the easel and stand next to Sarah, crossing my arms like she does, tilting my head to match the angle of hers. The temperature in the small room seems to rise. Every cell in my right arm, the arm closest to Sarah, is on high alert, anticipating contact. Hoping for it. This is quickly starting to feel unprofessional.

“Does it look different with my shoes off?” I look down at her carefully manicured toes and then at her face. A blush rises from her neck and into her cheeks.

She clears her throat. “Yes, I think so.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t take off my shoes. I wouldn’t want to subject you to my feet.”

“Feet are weird,” she says with a laugh. It’s different than her laugh earlier at the front door. This one is uncertain. Quieter.

I rest my chin on my fist and earnestly look at her painting. She has a five-by-seven photograph of a Spanish moss-covered old oak tree on her easel, and her painting is an abstract representation of it with bright colors and bold paint strokes.

“Why would I laugh at this?” I ask.

She glances at me and shrugs. “The colors are all wrong. I’m thinking of starting over.”

“Don’t do that. It’s perfect.”

“You wouldn’t know.”

I lower my hands to my sides. “Why not? Because I’m just a handyman?”

Sarah’s expression flashes from shocked to apologetic. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, I’m steeped in art. For the last three years, I’ve been surrounded by talented artists, people who areamazing at their craft. And that’s not me. You wouldn’t know because you’re not immersed in the culture. And one could argue that that’s a good thing.”

I relax my stance and hook my thumbs in my jeans pockets. “I don’t know a lot about you.” I wave at her painting and then rehook my thumb. “Or about any of this. But I’m going to guess, based on what I see here, that you’re being too hard on yourself.”

“That’s what Luna says.”

“Whoever Luna is, I think you should listen to her.”

Sarah laughs again, this time more confidently.

We’re both quiet for a moment. Long enough for me to identify the music she’s listening to. “I like Manchester Orchestra,” I say. “They’re one of my favorite bands.”

“Mine too.” She leans into her painting, scoops a dollop of red onto her brush, and swipes it onto the canvas.

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