The Memory Painter

Barbara busied herself by chopping salad ingredients. “I found the most amazing antique the other day,” she said, motioning to the bag by the door. On weekends she rummaged around flea markets with her girlfriends, looking for antiques. It was a longtime hobby.

Bryan was not surprised that she didn’t comment on his paintings. She hated to compliment or give praise; the tendency was not in her nature. Still, it stung a little. If Doc hadn’t mentioned that she had fallen in love with the Versailles, Bryan wouldn’t have known she’d bought it. She was such a different person with his father. Bryan had always felt like the odd one out, despite the dreams, and now it made sense.

“Something funny?”

Bryan snapped back to the present. “Sorry, what?”

“You had this little smile.”

“That not allowed?”

Barbara ignored his remark and went to work peeling a carrot. “Are you all settled in? I’d love to see the new place.”

“It’s just a loft where I work. There’s nothing to see.”

“You could at least have us over for dinner. You live like a hermit.”

Bryan crossed his arms. “Because I paint.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to keep yourself isolated. It’s not healthy.”

“Ah Jesus, here we go.”

She turned around and put her hands on her hips. “Don’t get defensive. I just worry about you. You look like hell. I’ve seen street bums who dress better. Are you even eating?”

Bryan stole the carrot from her cutting board and took a big bite to make a point. Barbara kept talking. He tuned her out and wandered over to the counter by the back door and peeked inside the bag from the flea market. What he saw inside flabbergasted him. He carefully lifted the object out and set it on the counter. “You bought a clock?”

“Yes. Don’t change the subject. Do you see what I’m trying to say?”

“Oh, I see what you’re trying to say, Barbara. I just don’t have to agree with it.”