No pictures, but here I have two:
I tuck my high-heeled feet underneath my chair and try to resist the urge to shiver. It’s too cold in the little office, but at least it’s warmer than the lobby. I watch Mr. Carmichael’s hand as he turns over the leaves of the binder because I know if I look at his face, I’ll start staring again.
He runs his thick fingers along the plastic page hugging my printed copy of “Damsel in the Red Dress,” which Mrs. King sent him, like he’s caressing the paint, his eyes dancing over every inch of the image, right to left.
“It’s no wonder you won,” he says, raising his dark eyebrows and blowing out a long breath at the same time. “I saw the footage from the Award Ceremony, but it didn’t do the thing justice. This piece is beautiful, Ms. Palmero.”
and the even more dangerous antagonist, i suppose the main one
“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.