I wring my wrists until the skin lights on fire - raw and anxious. Mrs. Moon stands stunned in the doorway, eyes locked on the painted peonies. One thin manicured hand, raised in dumbfounded surprise, rests in her dark hair, the other is suspended halfway to her mouth, brilliantly agape. The red-tinted lips move without words, her head shaking slowly as if unable to fully grasp what she’s seeing.
My heart beats wildly, pounding against my ribs like a frantic bird, trying to break through the cage. My lips part - my mind imagines feelings into motions and motions into rambling silence as I try to make an excuse for myself, but my tongue stays frozen in place. I’m not sure what I’d do or say anyway.
Sorry.
I look a mess - hair pouring over my shoulders in frizzy ringlets. I try to push back the heavy mass of curls and realize my hands are all smudged with scarlet. Acrylic smears. I wipe them off quickly on my blue jeans and set about setting the room to rights, making a mess of the coffee table, as I knock the brushes over and spray new paint over the old, permanent stains.
“Are you ready to go?” I breathe over the burning, nervous pressure filling my lungs, “I’ll just wash up real quick-”
Rather than answer, she steps over toward me and places her hands on my steaming cheeks, using her thumb to wipe the paint from my temple.
“Oh, hush, ‘Licia. Calm down.” her voice trills. “There’s, no hurry, my darling, no need to rush.”
When she says my name, I sound soft, and delicate, like a song. But for some reason, I still feel guilty, staring at the red stains on my hands, seeing the peonies, laughingly pink, out of the corner of my eye, watching me from their place on the canvas, even as Mrs. Moon holds my face in her hands.
“I’m sorry I just…lost track of time.”
“Shhh,” she says again, shaking her head gently. There is enough comfort in that sound for a thousand heartaches, but I’m at one thousand and one.
“My goodness, she’s a snappy dresser,” Mrs Moon laughs putting her arm through mine, “I’d kill for that suit. But you look so cunning yourself in this dress. I’ve never seen it before. Did my little prince buy it for you?”
“No,” I breathe trying not to blush. “This is one not atrocious dress I managed to pick out myself. I think that might be a new record.”
Mrs. Moon chuckles at that, patting my hand. “Ahh, I just asked because it looked like his taste. He always likes it when you wear styles like this you know. Its drape is a bit like the cocktail dress.”
My breath catches at the uncomfortable reminder, and there’s silence until we get in the car, and Mrs. Moon has started the engine to let the heating kick on. Her radio is playing that eternal “Oldie but a goodie station,” and Billie Holiday is crooning again.
Good morning heart-
“Time to celebrate,” Mrs. Moon smiles, checking her mascara in the rear view mirror, “Do you want French or Italian?”