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Splash. Stroke. Splash.
“What the fuck is that?”
I glanced over my shoulder. Christy stood by the door, holding two glasses of juice on a tray, and looking absolutely horrified. Slowly, she walked into the room, like she was scared, and dropped the tray on the table nearby. She wore an off-the-shoulder top on ripped black jeans. It was her signature look when she wasn’t in a good mood.
I rolled my eyes and returned focus to the canvas. She marched forward and stood beside the easel, staring at me, as if I’d grown two extra heads on my shoulders.
Splash. Stroke. Splash.
“Again, Mariana, in the name of all things sane, I ask,” she pressed her palms together. “What the fuck is this?”
I poured more black paint on the canvas and, with my brows closely knit together and attention unwavering, swished it with the paintbrush. The strokes were black and bold, gliding around the canvas in a circular motion. I spared her a glance and shrugged. “It’s the butt of a donkey.”
“What?”
“The butt, Christy. Of a donkey. I know I’m not exactly the best artist, but…” I trailed off, like it couldn’t be any more obvious.
She sputtered incoherently, lowered her head to scan the painting, and looked at me like I was crazy. “It looks like death, Mari.”
I paused and peered at the state-of-the-art...art. It did resemble, but who could blame me? Maybe it was that way because I felt like I had died a thousand times over after hearing that I got pregnant by a man who was getting married to someone else. Angry. Hurt. Confused. Alone. Those words best described the turmoil eating deep inside of me. And when I decided to express myself in the small, untidy basement, I saw the butt of a donkey.
Or what looked like it.
I frowned harder and dipped the brush in grey paint.
“Move, Christy.” I didn’t look at her. “You’re blocking the light.”
“That’s a good thing,” she gave an airy laugh. “This monstrosity doesn’t deserve to see the light of day.”
“It’s just a painting,” I argued and lifted the brush. She grabbed my hand and made me face her.
“Mari, it’s more than just a painting. It’s a symbol. You’re not okay, and that’s okay. You don’t have to...”
“I’d rather not talk about it. Just move, and let me be, okay? I’ll be fine.”
A snort slipped past her mouth but she let go of my hand and moved around me. Her scent breezed past me as she rested on the table smelled like fried chicken and lemon zest. It was strangely calming.
“That was what you said yesterday,” her voice came from behind and the day before, and…”
The day before, and … I’d been stuck in the basement for the past four days, sitting crisscrossed on a high stool in front of an easel. I’d slept there. Eaten nuggets there. And cried there.
“Mariana.”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“But this is very important. I’m not going to allow you to keep shutting this out.”
I threw the brush at the canvas. It sloshed the wet painting and slid down. I looked at her. “What do you want, Christy? Tell me, what is it? Shouldn’t you be happy that I’m here, calm and quiet, dealing with my shit? I told you, I’m handling it. I’m fine. I’m fucking great. Can’t you see?”
She shook her head. “The only thing I can see is a broken young woman in filthy rags, who hasn’t showered for four days. Come on, Mari. You can’t keep doing this. The world is moving on, and you should too.”
“Fine then!” my voice hit the roof. “Let's address the fucking elephant in the room, how about that? Do you know what it fucking feels like to have this baby …hisbaby growing inside me when I know he’s preparing for an engagement party to another woman? The answer is no, you don’t. I feel a lot of things right now. I don’t know what to do.”
“I do, Mari.” She grabbed a stool and pulled it towards me. Covering her hands with mine, she said, “You don’t have to keep it.”
“What?” I withdrew my hands like I’d been burnt.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m being supportive, and rational. You don’t have to keep it. He’s getting married and, last time I checked, you are not the bride-to-be.”
