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“Were you together for long?” I ask, intrigued that he would say that about his own wife, or soon-to-be ex.
“No, not long before she got pregnant and that’s really what spurred the marriage and for us to stay together for as long as we did. What about you, why are you divorced?”
“Oh…I’m not,” I tell him, not sure how to say this. He observes me, completely surprised, and I don’t want him to get the wrong impression, so I just say it. “I’m a widow. My husband, Ben, passed away a little over a year ago.”
“Oh, wow, Faye, I’m so sorry to hear that. I had no idea. I just noticed you didn’t have a ring.”
Reaching beneath my t-shirt, I pull out the long chain that holds both my and Ben’s wedding rings on it. I know he feels bad, but the word “sorry” does nothing. For some reason as humans, we feel obligated to say it. “Here are our rings. Ben asked me to not wear my ring after he was gone. He didn’t want me to stand still in time, but even without this ring on my finger, time still stands still, because he’s not here.”
I blink a few times, pushing away the tears and find myself back to the night I lost him, the image so vivid in my mind, but Thane pulls me back to the present, placing his hand over top of mine on the countertop. “He sounds like a very brave man. I don’t think I could do that.”
“He was.” I let out an exhale and tell him, “I’m sorry,” not even sure why I feel so comfortable sharing so much with him.
“No, don’t be sorry, that’s the last thing you should be.”
“Thanks.”
“Of course. So should we eat and talk about butterflies or something?” he asks with a smile. I nod, chuckling as I imagine butterflies floating all around, then look at the huge spread of food laid out in front of us. “Do you like Mediterranean food?”
“I do, I love it.”
We dig in, each filling our plates, and he asks me, “So do you work?”
“Yes, I’m an artist. I’ve taken some time off, but am trying to get back into the swing of things.”
“What kind of art do you do?” He keeps looking over at me as he talks, making my heart race even more. Watching the way he licks his lips, I tell him, “Panting. Shit, I’m sorry, I meant painting,” I tell him, looking away.
But he doesn’t seem fazed by my blunder. “Can you make money at that?”
“Yeah, I do. I’ve been doing it for years now and have a lot of galleries that sell my work.”
“You have any here?”
Finishing my glass of wine, the alcohol seems to make me more settled and more okay with things. “Mmhmm. I’ll show you when we’re finished eating.” I get off my chair and grab more wine, refilling our glasses.
After we’re done eating, I ask him, “Ready?” and lead him into my studio. There are paintings all around on the walls, from floor to ceiling. There are some that are my favorites that I just can’t part with.
“Wow!” Thane exclaims, taking everything in and then he stops in front of one of Ben sleeping.
He swallows and crosses his arms, observing the piece. “Ben would never sit still long enough for me to paint him and then when we were waiting for the news of his test results, he was already so tired before we knew. And I feared it would come back positive—I think deep down we both knew he was sick. I prayed for it to be negative, but I couldn’t sleep or do anything except worry. I knew if he had cancer, our life would never be the same, even if he got through it, so I painted him sleeping, as a reminder of how he was in that moment. As the sun capped the morning sky, I finished the painting, and he woke to the phone call we’d been dreading.”
“Jesus, Faye…I…I don’t even know what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything; I don’t know why I’m even telling you all of this.” I clam up and feel completely stupid for spilling my feelings to him.
“Don’t stop talking,” he encourages me, and I stare at the floor as I say to him, “One month after I painted this picture, Ben passed away.”
