The Memory Painter

“Look, I know you guys are right,” Linz admitted. They weren’t saying anything she hadn’t already told herself. “He’s just so in my head. I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Derek gave a dramatic sigh. “Well at least you have this dream connection going. My relationships are so god damn shallow.”

Linz grimaced. She couldn’t believe she was going to ask this again. “Do either of you believe in reincarnation?”

Penelope held up her hand. “If you say soulmates I’m going to puke.”

“Here, here.” Derek clinked his glass in solidarity with Penelope. “Honey, past lives are an excuse for people who are unhappy with their own. Can we get back to the sandbox?”

“No. What do you know about him though? His background.”

Derek said, “Darling, we’re not a credit check.”

“Linz.” Penelope put her hand on Linz’s like a concerned parent.

“Relax, it’s just dinner,” she assured them. “It’s not like we’re getting married.”

*

Michael and Diana’s wedding portrait sat on a storage box, watching Linz and Bryan eat.

Linz motioned to the boxes. “Are you moving in or out?”

“Neither, I was cleaning out an old storage room.” Bryan left it at that.

Linz examined the space. The enormous loft was divided into two areas. She assumed his studio sat on the other side of the Japanese silk screens. The sofa and dining table were the only indications that someone lived there.

She glanced again at the wedding portrait. Something about it made her uneasy. “Are they your parents?”

“No. Does the word ‘Renovo’ mean anything to you?” Bryan asked.

“Sounds like an awful name for an Italian car. Why?”

“Do you dream when you’re awake?”

Linz put down her fork. Between Bryan’s searing gaze and the stares of the couple in the wedding portrait, she was losing her appetite. “You know, we have the weirdest conversations. I feel like everything’s happening backward. We hardly know each other.”

Bryan searched her eyes. “We know each other.”

Linz looked away. “I mean conventionally. I don’t even know where you’re from. If you have any brothers or sisters, those things.”

“Words.”

Linz swirled her wine, watching it spin. “I like words. It’s called communicating.”

“Okay. I was born in Boston. No brothers or sisters.”