I nod, because yeah, she is. No words can really capture just how talented she is, though I know some art critics tomorrow will try.
“How do you think this one will look in the living room?” Trent says, gesturing to a large painting displayed on a side wall.
It’s a colorful piece, the outline of a woman’s figure standing amongst bursts of purples, blues, reds, and pinks. I remember when she painted this one. It’s titledLa Petite Mort, which is what the French call an orgasm. I glance at Sam, and her eyes are wide trying not to laugh.
“It’s a great piece,” I say slowly, “but I don’t think you’d want it in your living room.”
“No?” Trent looks at it again. “Too bright?”
“Sure,” I hedge, which causes Sam’s composer to slip, and she snorts out a loud laugh.
My mom has her hand propped under her chin, and she’s watching Trent and me with amusement. She does this all the time when we’re together. I still don’t understand why.
“C’mon, old man.” I put my hand on Trent’s shoulder. “I know just the painting for your living room.” Then I walk him toward something less... orgasm-y.
We’re standing in front of a safer piece, one simply called Homesick, when I catch Trent watching Lennon.
“Look at our girl, Macon,” he says softly. “Did you think she’d be doing something like this when you first met her?”
My lips quirk up, and I answer immediately.
“I did.”
Trent chuckles and pats me on the back.
“Me too.”
The End.
