Tuesday 200 — #89
She closes the book she’s been reading, some YA saga about the dead who won’t stay dead, and places it on the nightstand. Fluff-punching the pillow into pre-slumber submission, she lets her head fall into it. She and her pillow sigh in unison. I can feel the warm breath from both of them.
“Just choose one.”
I’m thumbing through several weeks’ worth of sketches. So many fragments of twice as many misconceptions, each less muse-worthy than than the next. The bigger her belly grows, the closer the deadline looms, the emptier those canvases in the studio become.
“Remember the first time you brought me here?” she asked.
“I think you found this house.” I toss the sketchbook on the floor.
“No baby. Here. To your hometown. You wanted to show me the nice part of town, some suburb you swore you’d never be able to afford. We got completely lost, but we had the best drive, listening to crappy radio stations, singing along to crappier songs. You said, ‘we keep making wrong turns, but look at all the pretty houses.’”
I really don’t remember but murmur, “oh yeah.”
“How about you paint me a wrong turn tomorrow?”
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