I <\/span>focused my dread for the evening on the imminent knock at the door. For a whole hour, as my rosemary chicken smoldered in the oven, I listened to the sounds of the sidewalk, my stomach jumping at every thump. But the front door remained untouched. Mother was late.<\/p>\n

I wish I hadn’t picked up the call this afternoon. But the number was withheld and I was hoping it was Todd. Mother insisted we meet for dinner, and no, it couldn’t wait. I said I wasn’t in the mood for going to the city, and somehow that became an invitation to my place. The rest of the day had to be wasted on grocery shopping, grooming and cleaning the apartment.<\/p>\n

The chicken was done \u2013 a shade too brown. I popped it out, poured myself a glass of Chardonnay, and said to myself, it’s a matter of two hours \u2013 wine, dinner and dessert \u2013 then it would be over. I took a sip, and a pungent bitter tasted filled my throat, making me wince. I\u2019ve never liked expensive wine.<\/p>\n

<\/a>I walked back to the living room, glass in hand, and did one final survey. Everything looked spotless. In front of the far wall was a black leather couch and by the adjacent wall, to my left, was a matching love seat. Right after I moved in, I made Todd throw away the glass coffee table. I hated those things \u2013 always in my way. And without it, the white fluffy carpet spread across the floor uninterrupted.<\/p>\n

On the far wall, above the couch hung the goddamn \u201cstill life\u201d painting that wouldn’t come off. The antique oak frame was hammered to the wall. Right out of the bath, wrapped in my ink blue towel, I had tugged at the nails for half-hour, only to get my fingers bruised and my best kitchen knife bent.<\/p>\n

Brooklyn Art Council had a still life painting contest in association with a gallery in Madrid. The winner would be showcased in that gallery. I was hoping it would be Todd, he was doing well with shows in Chelsea and Williamsburg, but some international exposure couldn’t hurt. Besides I wanted to go to Madrid, really bad.<\/p>\n

The day of judging, Todd came home early, with a canvas tucked under his large arm and a big smile that made his little eyes disappear.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s amusing?\u201d I said standing on my toes to kiss him.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was disqualified,\u201d he said, unfurling the scroll.<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck,\u201d I said, shocked and aroused at the sight \u2013 it was an oil painting of me lying on the floor comatose and nude. The first criteria for a still life painting was \u2013 no humans. Todd knew that. But I couldn’t get myself angry.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know, how you always wanted me to draw you,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

For a picture I didn\u2019t pose for, it was quite accurate.<\/p>\n

Two knocks jolted me out of my thoughts. They were mild taps \u2013 thick ring on wood. Mother was here. After dreading this moment for hours, it was a relief to get it over with. I lifted up the thin silver cross on my necklace from under my dress and kissed it. I wasn\u2019t religious but my grandmother put it on me, when I was twelve, and I hadn\u2019t had the heart to take it off. Besides, I had got used to its feel on my skin.<\/p>\n

I walked down the half flight of stairs to the front door, scrapping my bare foot on the theater-red carpet. I swung the door open and there was Mother clutching her brown leather handbag as if someone would grab it any minute and run. Her hair was cut short and she wore an expensive purple dress I hadn\u2019t seen before.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo comments,\u201d I said reaching to hug her and smelled lilacs.<\/p>\n

\u201cOn what dear?\u201d Mother slid an arm around me, the other still holding her bag tight. When she pulled back, her eyes rested on the cross and she gave a slight nod.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou will see.\u201d I turned around and climbed up, tapping my knuckles against the wood panel on the side, echoing deep raspy knocks, as if to show how it was done.<\/p>\n

Mother and I had played the little approval games since my elementary school. Me frowning at her new curly hairstyle, she pouting her lips over my crimson nail polish. We did it without words, through mere gestures. And we always put our opinions behind us and moved on.<\/p>\n

When I dropped out of college my junior year, six months ago, and moved in with Todd, a painter twice my age, Mother couldn\u2019t let go of her disapproval. Like spoiled milk, an uneasy smell lingered between us.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou burnt the food,\u201d Mother said sniffing the air in front of her.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust a little,\u201d I waved my hand.<\/p>\n

And then she saw it. The behemoth painting, in its dark oak frame. My nude. She gave out nothing, as her eyes glossed over the far wall, not even a gulp on the throat. Sometimes, she could be impressive that way. I followed Mother’s silent gaze, reading her judgments, as her eyes flicked across the room. She liked the soft cream on the walls and the black leather on the couch. The maroon curtains didn\u2019t work for her, and she thought I could keep the place cleaner.<\/p>\n

\u201cWish you had visited earlier,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

Mother sat on the couch. Slipping the green wide-heeled sandal off her right foot, she crossed her right leg over the left. Her sandals looked new, and her toenails were pedicured. I sat down to her right, at the far end of the love seat, tucking my legs under me. Feeling a chill, I pulled the thin sleeves of my shirt over my fingers. We sipped our wine in silence, and I flipped my eyes from my mother to the painting behind her.<\/p>\n

In the picture, I was laying on my back, naked, on a white mosaic floor in front of a black leather couch. My legs, bent at the knee and turned to an angle, rested on the couch. I was framed diagonally across the picture, my head at the bottom left corner. Like a tight focused photograph, the painting blurred as it moved down my body. My face was turned to the viewer \u2013 eyes were half closed and unfocused, the lower lip flushed. Was I passed out or dead?<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere is Todd?\u201d Mother asked smoothing nonexistent wrinkles on her skirt.<\/p>\n

\u201cIn the studio,\u201d I said staring at the lone green sandal that lay forsaken on the carpet. \u201cHe works late.\u201d<\/p>\n

But I didn\u2019t know where he was. He had been gone for a whole week now. Todd was very disciplined with his work and wouldn\u2019t even touch a beer when he was painting. But between projects and during his \u201cartist blocks\u201d he would spend hours with his bohemian friends, smoking pot and listening to The Flaming Lips. The smell of pot made me nauseous, and I stayed away. Sometimes, Todd wouldn\u2019t come home for two days. Probably, too stoned to move. I couldn\u2019t help but wonder if he was in the arms of an ex-lover (He wasn\u2019t the kind who could do a one-night-stand or have a fling). Before apprehension could turn into fear, Todd would show up, his shoulder-long graying hair a tangled mess, and smelling as if he had passed out in a skunk hole. Laughing, I would imitate his stagger as he walked into the shower in a grump.<\/p>\n

But a whole week? This was something new and I couldn\u2019t make sense of it. Where was he, I wondered. This was his house, he couldn\u2019t just leave.<\/p>\n

\u201cI am doing yoga,\u201d Mother said. \u201cMy knees are much better now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYoga,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should try. It\u2019s good for the back.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe one time I did, I couldn\u2019t stop farting. So embarrassing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStop it, you.\u201d Mother smiled, the skin on the sides of her eyes creasing.<\/p>\n

As Mother leaned back, her head was almost touching the head of my inverted portrait. I compared the two faces. Mother\u2019s was small, round and made-up. While mine in Todd\u2019s odd perspective was enormous and looked slept in. Yet the features \u2013 big brown eyes and strong cheekbones \u2013 were identical.<\/p>\n

My hair in the picture was alive. Today, its black strands seemed ruffled. I wanted to reach out to the fabric, stroke the hair with my fingers and soothe it, the way I had done many many times.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s eat,\u201d I said hopping off the love seat.<\/p>\n

Mother\u2019s eyes weren\u2019t pleased with the kitchen. Two frying pans, a cutting board and a few bowls were abandoned in the sink. Breadcrumbs and onion peels were noticeable on the counter-top. I just cooked, damn it.<\/p>\n

Just dinner and dessert left, I said to myself.<\/p>\n

I was proud of my dining set-up \u2013 the square table was placed like a diamond in the small area. The walls blocked off two sides of the table and when we had guests, Todd and I wiggled under the table to get to those chairs. Today we sat on the two free sides, with sliced grilled chicken, roasted potatoes and Ciabatta bread laid out on the dark Maplewood. The chocolate pudding I made for dessert was cooling in the refrigerator.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis chicken is lovely,\u201d Mother said swallowing her first bite.<\/p>\n

The chicken wasn\u2019t lovely, it was barely good \u2013 too spicy and burnt. It was an offer of truce and I took it.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you,\u201d I said, stripping away the sarcasm I always put on the moment I met Mother.<\/p>\n

Picking up the small loaf of bread, I held it in front of Mother. First she gave me a puzzled look and then with a laugh, took it in her hands. The green veins on the back of her hands bulged for a moment as she broke the loaf into two. We ate in silence digging into the potatoes topped with sour cream and bacon bits.<\/p>\n

\u201cI am having an affair,\u201d Mother said, her eyes fixed on her plate.<\/p>\n

\u201cDad\u2019s been dead for five years,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s not an affair.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe \u2013\u201d Mother paused. \u201cThe man is married.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck.\u201d I shut my mouth and muted the word. In the five years since dad\u2019s death, Mother went out on no more than two dates. She was incapable of moving on.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho is he?\u201d A bit of hostility edged into my voice.<\/p>\n

Mother was so Catholic about dating, during freshman year of high school, I felt guilty if I as much as kissed a boy. Now, without a care, in a new dress and sandals, she was sleeping with someone \u2013 a married man. At least, I never stole another girl’s guy.<\/p>\n

Mother bit her lip. \u201cHis wife is in my yoga class.\u201d<\/p>\n

A friend\u2019s husband? I glared at her, and unable to meet my stare, Mother looked down at the peach dinner towel, folded in three, on her lap. Why was she telling me all this, I wondered. Was this some form of confession?<\/p>\n

Mother’s forehead creased into four ridges and her shoulders dropped.<\/p>\n

\u201cI feel terrible,\u201d she said her lower lip quivering. \u201cBut I was so lonely.\u201d<\/p>\n

Seeing this change in her, my throat went dry. As a kid, many times, I would overcome my disappointment over a torn skirt or bad grade, and walk home with a calm face. But under the towering stance of my mother and her probing brown eyes, I would break down and cry.<\/p>\n

Now, Mother buried her head between her hands, and I was scared she was crying.<\/p>\n

I did what she always did.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s ok,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

Mother looked up, her eyes dry and mascara intact. \u201cI know it\u2019s wrong \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMother,\u201d I interrupted her. \u201cThere is no right or wrong. Things happen. Just make sure he treats you right.\u201d<\/p>\n

She leaned toward me, pinched my forearm and smiled. I felt the relief of putting down something I had clenched tight in my fists all day long. Once again, Mother and I were confiding in each other. I wanted to tell her everything \u2013 that Todd had disappeared, that my period was two weeks late and I didn\u2019t have the guts to tell Todd or take the test. I wanted to let it all out and feel free, if only for a moment.<\/p>\n

Two distinct beeps echoed through the room. I turned my head to see if I had left the oven on.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat was that?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think I got a text message,\u201d Mother said reaching down to the handbag by her side.<\/p>\n

Text message? Mother was the last one on her block to get rid of the rotary phone. And less than a year ago, she refused to own a cell phone. Now, she was text messaging? Something even I felt too old for.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry, dear,\u201d Mother said without taking her eyes off the phone, \u201cI have to go.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut the pudding \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI am sure it\u2019s delicious but I have to run.\u201d And meeting my eyes, she said, \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe will get dessert another time,\u201d I said, \u201cMaybe at Andre\u2019s Caf\u00e9.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat would be lovely.\u201d<\/p>\n

Closing the door behind my mother, I walked up to the living room and stood before the painting, which was an outline of dark shapes in the illumination seeping from the dining area. In the picture, the cross on my necklace lay on the side of my right breast. One of the two black chords, that took the cross around my neck, pressed down my skin just under the nipple.<\/p>\n

I took off my clothes and lay on the white carpet in front of the black couch. I bent my legs and placed my ankles on the couch, matching the posture of my portrait step-by-step. I lay there is semi-darkness, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Todd, the untouched chocolate pudding, and the not-so-still-life in my belly. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It was an offer of truce and I took it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-226","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/226","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=226"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/226\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=226"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=226"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=226"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}