Page 16 of Come Back to Bed
“Why do you look so surprised again?”
“Because you just complimented me again.”
“And you’re not used to getting compliments?”
“Not from you.”
“You can’t be used to anything yet, you just met me.”
He sees a painting on the fireplace mantle, leaning against the mirror. A Vermont winter landscape. It’s the forest edge behind my parent’s house.
“I like this. This is good.” His deep voice is so quiet all of a sudden, but I still hear him very clearly.
“Thank you.”
He continues to stare at it, and I wish I could take a picture of him, the way he’s looking at my painting. It’s like he recognizes a soul mate or something. I think I’d either cry or run away screaming if someone ever looked atmelike that.
“I want this,” he says. Spoken like a guy who knows what he wants and is used to getting it.
“It’s not for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale.”
“Not everything.”
“You painted this to keep for yourself?”
“Not exactly. I painted it because I had to paint it.”
“Maybe you had to paint it because I need to have it.”
I don’t know why I’m feeling such resistance to the idea of this guy owning my painting, but I do. “Explain to me why you need to have it.”
He stares at it, slowly shakes his head. “I can’t. I just do.”
“Well. I appreciate that, but I need to know that it’s going to the right home.”
“You’ll never make a living as an artist if you care who buys your work.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I’ll give you two hundred for it.”
Two hundred for a piece of my soul. “Why?”
“Three hundred.”
My face twitches. Three hundred dollars is a lot for a small oil painting by an unknown artist. No one has ever wanted to buy this one before. But it still doesn’t feel right to sell it to him.
“Does it have a name?”
I stare up at him and blink, wide-eyed.
“What?”
“Nobody’s ever asked me that before.”
“And I’ve never asked anyone if their painting has a name before. Three-fifty. But only if you tell me the name.”
