Page 74 of Error Handling
I stand and join her in the back porch. Dolly greets me with exuberant licks. “What’s wrong?”
Sarah waves agitated hands at her painting. “It’s ruined!”
I join her in front of the easel, fold an arm across my stomach and anchor my chin on my other hand. The painting looks much like the one she showed me several days ago—an old gnarly oak with generous Spanish moss hanging from the leaves. The tree is offset to the right, allowing branches to flow across the canvas. This tree, however, is purples, oranges, and reds—the bark like hungry flames.
“This is amazing,” I say.
“How?”
“You can’t see it, can you?”
“All I see is a waste of student-grade paints. This is why I don’t use professional grade. Luna can though. Her paintings are amazing. She can paint realistic landscapes and portraits and—”
“You’re not Luna.”
Sarah’s shoulders round and she covers her face with her hands. When I hear her sniff, alarm bells ring. Maybe she’s menstruating.
I quickly shove the thought away. Whatever I said struck a raw nerve. I rest my hand on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry. I meant you shouldn’t compare yourself to someone else.”
She sniffs again but doesn’t move. I take this as a hint that I shouldn’t move either. We stand quietly for a moment, and then she drops her hands. Her eyes are red.
Smooth, Chris.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
Sarah flits her eyes to my face and then to her painting. “You’re fine. It’s not you. It’s just—I’m twenty-eight and I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life. You’re right. A painting major is a waste of money. No one’s going to hire me to be a ‘painter.’ The only thing I’ll ever paint is bedroom walls. Maybe a garage door. Some wood siding.”
“When did I say your painting major was a waste of money?”
“When we ran into each other at the student center.”
I can’t remember what I said then. I was triggered and went off about the employment rate of College of Charleston graduates or something. Stupid. We both need to put that awkward encounter behind us.
“Don’t listen to me. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“So, my paintings really are crap?”
“No. I mean, don’t listen to my jealous comments about college graduates.”
“You’re jealous of college graduates?”
Am I? Or did I just say that to make her feel better? I don’t know. Navigating crying women is like navigating a mine field. I want to be careful not to step on any more triggers.
“I suppose I am jealous,” I say finally. “Artists get to play all day, right?”
Sarah scoffs. “This never feels like playing.” She gestures at her painting.
“You don’t enjoy painting? Not even a little bit?”
“Not really, no. Maybe a little. Occasionally.”
“Do you ever get in the flow?”
“You mean, like Aunt Flo?”
More alarm bells. Menstruating will not be a topic of conversation tonight.