The Memory Painter

Linz watched his hands, noting all the calluses and faint shadows of paint stains. She couldn’t imagine waking up one day and being able to paint like a master. Her brain tried to compute how that was possible—something she had found herself doing more than once since she had met him.

Still thinking about his confession, she launched into her own history and realized Bryan was right—all this was unnecessary. They were well beyond small talk, but she continued to explain herself to him anyway. “I’m from Boston too. You already know about my mother. She and my brother died in a car accident.” Before he could say anything, she rushed on. “I don’t remember them. I grew up with just my dad. Got into science. Lots and lots of never-ending school, first Harvard and then Stanford. I moved back here after finishing my PhD.”

“What made you decide to become a neurogeneticist?” he asked.

No one had ever asked her that question, but the answer came easily. “Because genes are the most beautiful puzzle I’ve ever encountered. And I solve puzzles.”

She glanced up and they both grew quiet. Bryan reached out and took her hand, whispering, “What do you see when you look in my eyes?”

The question made her chest constrict. “That’s a strange question,” she said.

Bryan pulled his hand away and stood up to clear the table.