Paintings

She made pancakes really badly, but she thought they were amazing. When she made them she crinkled her mouth into origami. Tiny wrinkles. Creases of Concentration. Her eyes would flick up into me for an instant like she was an affectionate, skittish kitten. Every weekend morning, I made the coffee (I liked mine black, she took cream), and she made the pancakes. Routine. Every weekend we ate together in silent compassion, unspoken and so thick that it permeated the air and mixed with the aroma of mediocre breakfast food. So many pancakes. Such terrible pancakes. But I’ve never been able to replicate them. I’ve tried so many times, used so many batters, overcooked them, undercooked them, spit into them, cried into them, cried into them so much and then cried more, but nothing matched her horrible pancakes and nothing matched her.

I hung her eyes in my mind like framed paintings. I reserved a space for them befitting a Rembrandt. I cleared away wall space inside my softened skull and I nailed the masterpieces of her glances there. I set up industrial lights to shine on them. When I left for my business trips, I used to walk into a mental museum and experience her gaze anew (while she was at home, with eyes nestled far away in her angular head). With each step through my museum, I repainted our moments fresh onto clean new canvas.

Paintings-

The time she looked at me at McDonalds across the table. Mustard on mouth, eyes nervous, fizzing like her root beer; ecstatic. High school. Don’t look at her chest. D****t you looked at her chest. D****t she noticed. She’s smiling. How is it possible that she’s eating with me right now? How is it possible that she’s smiling at me?

Paintings-

The time she gazed at me on a twin-sized mattress. My chest her pillow, my heart punching her chin. Racing.  Does she notice? She must notice, but she’s smiling. The blanket wrapped like a sodden chrysalis with us cocooned and changing within. We molted together and became mature, full-fledged with wingspan infinite, with crystal wings specked and prismatic, with antennae connecting our bodies like live telegraph wires. Beautiful.       

       

Paintings-

The time her eyes were lasers that burned holes in my retinas. Creamy coffee abandoned long since on the kitchen counter. Her mouth crinkled into origami creases of frustration. Breakfast ruined. I shouldn't have said that. I knew she hated it when I said that, but it was true. Was it true? But then it didn't matter, because the war had begun and it was my mission to snuff those lasers before the sun set. Into the fray we flew, lying back-to-back in the bed we shared, neither asleep, loving-hating. 

Paintings-

The time she peeked up in bed with sleepy eyes and shaved head; angles showing that I never knew about. Weak smile. So weak. Eyes still nimble, even in a drugged reverie, like a loving skittish kitten. Skull like a jagged bowling ball. Beeping from machine slowing. Slowing down. Just like in the movies, but without the comforting separation of a silvery screen. Nurse? NURSE. Please make the beeping speed up again. Its slowing down make it speed up. Long, impersonal words tumble from above the stethoscope. Just make it speed up. It can’t end like this. 29 years old. Angular head the color of coffee creamer. Eyes like kitten’s eyes. Closed now. Closed.

 

The last glance is the hardest to repaint, because my hands shake and the brush blurs.

Paintings- 

clutter my mind now, but I don’t look at them if I can help it, because they are just paintings, and the moments have passed. I just want to clean that mustard off of her mouth. I just want to stuff my chest with down and be her pillow once more. I just want the lasers to burn me, to incinerate me, to turn me to dust. I’d even savor being hit down like an arrogant pin by her bowling ball head. I want to smell pancakes. Such s****y pancakes. If I could just replicate them. But now I’m on a business trip for forever and her angular head is nowhere, and her kitten eyes are nowhere, and on weekends I stand in the kitchen alone in primal fear and crushing singularity. Every morning I still make the coffee. I take cream now.

Author's Note

any critique welcome

Reviews

[Marie]

THis is amazing. I don't really know what else to say. I read it twice looking for mistakes. But what seemed like punctuation mistakes were part of the flow of the story.
Amazing.