Page 73 of Error Handling
On Thursday night, Sarah informs me she’s behind on her schoolwork and needs to spend the evening in the back porch with Dolly and her “silly” painting.
“Why is it silly?” I ask.
Sarah rolls her eyes. “I can see the tree in my head. I just can’t translate it onto the canvas.”
We’re standing in the living room because much of the kitchen floor is exposed to the crawlspace. I laid down a couple of paths so Sarah can make it over to the back porch, as well as to her microwave and fridge.
“Anything I tried to paint would be silly,” I say. “Your paintings are art.”
Sarah rolls her eyes again.
“Don’t go calling me uneducated again,” I say, teasing.
She looks shocked. “I’ve never called you that.”
“You implied it.”
“You mean when we ran into each other at the student center?”
“Yeah.”
“I was just startled to see you there. I was off my game.”
“Freudian slip.”
She punches my arm lightly. “Stop. I was startled to see your gorgeous face again.”
I give her a side-eyed glance and point at my face. “I didn’t realize you felt that way about this.”
Sarah blushes. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud. See? I say silly things when I’m around you.”
I smile, gently grab her forearm, and squeeze. “There’s that word again. You’re not silly and your paintings aren’t silly. I don’t have two college degrees, but you still have to trust me.”
“I don’t have two college degrees either.”
“You will soon. Two to my zero. But that doesn’t mean I can’t recognize talent. I know good art when I see it.”
“I wish I had your confidence in me.”
“Would you like to borrow it?”
“Yes, please.”
I take Sarah’s hand—any excuse to feel her soft skin—and turn it over in mine. With her palm facing up, I place my other hand over my heart and then clasp her upturned hand.
“There,” I say. “Now go do your work. I’ve got to put in the subfloor before one of us breaks a leg.”
“Fine,” she says with slumped shoulders. She carefully follows the path of OSB through the kitchen and gives Dolly a pat before focusing on her painting.
I pull up the scrap OSB that I fashioned into walkways, and then grab a full sheet from the stack in the living room, situate it near the door to the back porch, and secure it with screws. The rest will have to be customized using my cheap table saw, which I already placed on the sidewalk in front of the house.
I cut the second board down to size, carry it back inside, and screw it to the floor joists. After my last screw, Sarah screams.
It’s not an “I’ve seen a ghost” scream, more like an “I’m so frustrated I can’t contain it anymore” scream.
I look over my shoulder. “Am I being too loud?”
“No,” Sarah says, and then she groans.