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Chapter One
THE PAINTING IS OIL ON CANVAS, not very large, but so distinct it stands out from all the other paintings in the small museum, at least to me.
Light pours into a small room from an open window, casting a soft glow that highlights the rosy skin of the girl seated at the edge of an unmade bed. Her naked back is exposed, and her face is turned to the side, as if she was about to turn around, towards the painter. Long gold hair falls in soft waves to the middle of her back, and you can tell by the slight curve in her cheek, that she’s smiling.
It’s not remarkably beautiful or outstanding, but it’s sweet and sensual at the same time, and yet more than that, it reaches out to something in me, something that’s separate from my misery and incessant loneliness, something that I can’t explain or even understand. I’m drawn to it. It makes me curious, and somehow certain that it has the power to assuage my curiosity.
I stumbled across the small museum a few days after I finally found a job at Empathy Zone, a graphic T-shirt store where I process orders and manage deliveries. The museum was only a few blocks down the street from my new workplace, and it drew me in, promising perhaps a few moments respite from my constant dejection, and pathetic mental fixation on the man behind it, the man who broke my heart.
David.
As usual, as soon as his name enters my mind, I lose the ability to think of anything apart from the pain, the intense ache I still carry around with me, every minute of every day.
I force my thoughts my thoughts to return to the painting in front of me, banishing all thoughts of David from my mind. It’s only temporary, I know. It’s only a matter of time before he invades my thoughts again, making me helpless against the memories.
Blinking back the sudden aching moisture in my eyes, I concentrate on the small printed card below the frame, which displays the painter’s name. Jonathan Cutler. I wonder if he’s a local painter, or some well-known artist I’ve never heard of. I remind myself to find out more about him when I get the chance.
I’m so engrossed in my thoughts that I don’t hear someone come up to stand beside me. “You’re here again.” A friendly voice says, startling me.
The voice belongs to Trey Welty, the curator. A middle-aged man with thinning brown hair that’s liberally sprinkled with grey, and lively dark eyes that twinkle behind his thick dark glasses.
“Hi Trey.” I reply, forcing a smile, even though I don’t really feel like smiling. My smiles are probably languishing somewhere along with the pieces of my broken heart. I don’t imagine that David’s finding it as difficult to smile. In my mind, I can see his easy, relaxed grin directed at someone else. It hurts.
Oblivious to my thoughts, Trey grins at me, and I turn away, unable to stomach the friendliness. He likes to chat whenever I come in, and usually tells me about the paintings and the museum, which is private and non-profit, and funded by a bequest from a long dead heiress. It displays most of her personal collection, as well as some recent purchases.
“It’s not our best piece.” Trey states, his eyes following mine back to the painting. He gives me a quizzical look, which I ignore. It’s not the first time he’s commented on my obsession with this particular work of art. At first, he tried to get me interested in the ‘treasures’ of the museum’s collection, but he’s since given up.
“I know it’s not.” I admit with a shrug.
“But you’re drawn to it anyway.” He nods reflectively. “Sometimes art speaks to parts of our subconscious that we’re not even aware of.”
It does speak to me in some way, I agree silently. I can’t stop looking at it. I can’t stop wondering about the two people in the roo
m. They weren’t just a model and an artist. I’m sure of it. Were they in love? Did their emotions rise to some stunning crescendo and then fall, leaving them shattered and heartbroken, like me?
“It has a story behind it.” Trey says thoughtfully, interrupting my thoughts again. He glances towards me, waiting for me to indicate that I’m interested in the story, whatever it is.
I am interested. “I hope you’ll tell me.” I say, encouraging him to continue.
“Of course.” He replies, obviously pleased to have an audience. “The painter was an art professor at one of the local colleges, who had some small success as a painter back when he was a young man, but he hadn’t painted anything in years.”
I nod, waiting for him to continue.
“Well, on their anniversary, about twenty years ago,” Trey says, “his wife… she was a poet, I remember, moderately successful too... Well she makes a dinner reservation at a restaurant in Seattle, then she goes to pick him up from his office at the university and drives the car over a bridge with the both of them in it.”
“Oh!” My eyes widen in shock. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Who knows? She didn’t leave a note, but she did write a poem that day. It was found on her desk, handwritten on a plain sheet and held down with a paper weight, as if she wanted to make sure it would be found. I can’t remember what it said, but it sort of pointed towards the fact that she knew what she was doing. One of those ‘If I can’t have you, no one else will’ themes.” He looks at me, “Gossip on campus was she found out he was having an affair with one of his students.”
A small shudder runs up my spine as I turn back to the painting. There’s a certain poignancy in every stroke of color, an aura of love and feeling. How sad! I think, imagining the kind of emotions that would have made the poor woman do what she did. And the painter, how did he feel in the end? Was he resigned, or desperate with the knowledge that he would never see the woman he loved again?
“The student…” I wonder out loud, “She was the girl in the painting.”
“It was his first painting in about fifteen years, and it does fit the time.” Trey smiles wryly. “The family gave it to the university after their deaths, and when it was auctioned a few years later, we bought it.”
My eyes go back to the girl, naked except for a little crease in the bed sheet that covers the most intimate parts of her backside. I imagine her turning around and saying something to the painter, a light teasing smile on her face. “Who was she?” I ask.
“Who knows?” Trey replies, shaking his head, “Just another student who fell for her professor.”
That night I dream about the painting, the unmade bed with the rumpled sheets. I imagine the painter, his eyes filled with desire as he sketches his lover. I imagine the girl, her smile turning into a laugh as she turns around, green eyes dancing, her face as familiar to me as my own.
I’m wearing a bright red t-shirt with the words ‘Welcome to Empathy Zone’ printed across the chest in a bright, yellow text, the same words I’m supposed to say with an upbeat cheery voice whenever anyone walks into the store.
My first few days, I kept the big, fake smile within reach, ready to hide the unhappiness I felt, as soon as anyone walked in. Not many people have walked in, thankfully. Well… thankfully for me, not for Jan Rippon and Larry Moss, my bosses, two middle-aged best friends who started the t-shirt company together back when they were still in college.
From what I’ve learned, the Empathy Zone t-shirts were very popular back in the day, with their signature quirky art and inspiring text. The business succeeded in making both my bosses very rich at a young age. Years later, it’s less successful, with most of the new orders coming in from nostalgic old customers.
I suspect that even Larry and Jan don’t do it for the money anymore. They’re both divorced now, with grown children, and, I assume, investments they live on, because they hardly seem concerned about the lack of sales. Most days, they’re content to sit in the back office playing video games while half-heartedly sketching new designs to display on the website.
My job is to process the online orders and forward them to the company that actually makes the t-shirts. I also track the deliveries to ensure our customers get their orders on time. Even though it sounds like a lot of work for just one person, based on the volume of customers, it isn’t really. Right now, it’s still morning, but I’ve already caught up on all the pending orders, so I actually have nothing to do.
Naturally, my thoughts return to David.
David.
Even thinking his name causes a hollow ache in my chest. How long will it feel like this? When will I be able to think about him and feel only a faint yearning, or even better, nothing at all?
I read somewhere that the real reason most people can’t get over an ex is that they don’t want to. Deep down they hold on to the hope that they’ll get back together, and that hope prevents them from moving on. These days I can relate to that. The thought of moving on and leaving my feelings for David behind makes me unbearably depressed. The thought of David moving on, the idea of him happy with someone else, it causes a physical pain in my chest that feels like my heart is being torn apart.
He haunts me, day and night, like some part of him is still buried inside me. My memories possess me, keeping me in a state of painful longing. I have to force myself not to freeze whenever I see any random dark haired man with even the faintest resemblance to him. It takes all my will not to cry myself to sleep every night, not to succumb to the dreams where I’m not lonely, not heartbroken, where I’m still happy, and still with David.
Sometimes, my will is not strong enough.
My phone starts to vibrate on my desk, interrupting my thoughts. The silver and black plasticky device is a far cry from the sleek smartphone David bought me, but that was one of the things I left behind when I left him. The fewer things I have to remind me of that life, the better for me.
I’m not surprised to see Stacey’s name flashing on the screen. She’s been calling me almost every day since I finally told her about leaving David. Though she warned me at the beginning not to rush into marriage with a man I hardly knew, she hasn’t given me any ‘I told you so’ speeches. She’s just been incredibly supportive, and I’m very grateful for that.
“Hello.” I inject as much cheerfulness into my voice as I can manage.
Stacey isn’t fooled. “Hello dear,” She replies, the old sound of worry back in her voice, “How’re you doing?”
