The Last Time

She went to the kitchen to see if any cold coffee were left from the morning. In the carafe was black lava. “Damn him!” she said aloud, switching the coffee maker off. She heated a mug of water in the mircrowave and stirred brown crystals into it, what Ed called “Isn’t Coffee.” It will have to do, she told herself. It’s fine. I don’t remember to drink it anyway, once I’m painting. And I will be painting. She marched back into her studio.

But standing back from it, she saw that it was doomed. In her burst of work that morning she had managed to very skillfully and beautifully put shadows into all her trees and grass and clouds where light should be. 

She had not done something that amateur since her first year of art school. She had felt she was working as well as she could work — and somehow this had happened.

She could paint out the mistakes, she could press herself into a sprint, she had shown herself a hundred times that when she really wanted to, she could work like —

But yes, this time was different. Yes, this day was different. She set her coffee on the work table, got into the coat closet, and cried.

When Ed came in, she was washing dishes. “I can’t believe you,” he said. He was nibbling a dandelion stalk, systematically flattening it like he did his soda straws. It was his straw nibbling, in fact, that had first attracted her. It seemed to confirm what she’d been told, that he was full of creative energy, that inside his beefy linebacker’s body was a restless, thinking spirit. Which was true. But she had gradually come to know that his fidgeting could also be a symptom of his weakness, his indecisiveness and worry. 

“We each have our way of going through life, dear.”

“I wish you’d stop the ‘dear’ business.”

“If you’d like.” She was smiling. She had put on a flowered shirt and brushed her hair into a ponytail.

“I’m sorry about all this,” he said, indicating the wreckage.

“It doesn’t matter much now.”

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“Why aren’t you painting?” he asked.

“I believe I’m perfectly capable of deciding how I use my time.”

“I just wondered.”

“And what have you been up to, dear?”

“I thought you were going to stop that.”

“Ed,” she corrected herself.

He sighed. “I was looking around the barn. You know that last stall, where we had all that old stuff stored? It doesn’t look like you’ve even been in there.”

“I don’t know that I like you nosing around in my things.”

“Come on, Gail. It’s not your things. It’s our things. I found some of my old records from high school. I’ve wondered where they went to.”

“If there’s anything of yours in there, I had no idea. I would have sent it to you years ago, believe me.”

“I’m just saying, I found these things I thought were gone. Today they show up. Some of my first stories, stuff from when I sold leather in college. I mean, it’s all trash, but  — “

“Well, anything that’s been sitting in that stinking barn for ten years is certainly trash to me. So feel free to rummage around in it all you like, if that’s what you enjoy.” She started the sink draining and dried her hands.

“There was some of our first cookware, that old Revlon set. The one with the lifetime guarantee.” He said it as a joke.

“Please,” she said.

“Anyway, look at this.”

“Whatever it is, I’d rather not.” She walked into the living room. She sat in the rocker and closed her eyes. The wood floor moaned and snapped. The leather recliner hissed and then thumped twice in mock protest as Ed — with oblivious force, as always — rammed it into its furthest position. He sank back into the leather and foam, he and the chair both sighing.