Page 75 of Error Handling
I laugh stiffly and change the subject. “No, I mean like when you’re driving a car and you lose track of where you are, but you still make it to your destination.”
Sarah furrows her brow at her painting. “That’s happened to me when driving, but never while painting. Does it happen to you while you’re putting down subfloor?”
“Not subfloor in particular, but while I’m working sometimes, yeah.”
Sarah sets down her paintbrush. “I guess I don’t know how to let go. I’m too afraid of making a mistake.”
Rather than unpack the deeper meaning of her statement, I leave the porch. “I’ll be right back,” I say.
Sarah
When Chris returns, he’s holding my dad’s old guitar.
“It needs tuned,” I tell him.
He walks over to the couch, pulls out his phone, clicks on a guitar tuner app, and then he goes about tuning each string.I didn’t know such apps existed, but I shouldn’t be surprised. There’s an app for everything.
I round my easel and join him on the couch. He finishes tuning the last string and then tries out a few chords. They ring clearly, unlike the few times I tried to play that old guitar. When I tried, I couldn’t coordinate my fingers or press hard enough against the strings.
Chris settles into a chord progression and then adds his voice. I recognize the song:Telepath, by Manchester Orchestra. What could have been an awkward moment (if Chris was a poor singer), becomes a soul-moving experience as his voice travels easily through the song’s range. He moves effortlessly from note to note offering a deeper resonance to the tune than Manchester Orchestra’s lead singer. My body reaches a boiling point and slowly starts to melt.
He pauses before a chorus, reaches for my hand, places it on his chest, and then he continues singing. I feel his voice, a warm vibration that travels up my arm.
When he finishes the song, he rests his forearm on the guitar. “Did you feel it?” he asks.
“What?” I whisper, unintentionally. His singing knocked the air out of me. I felt something, that’s for sure.
“Did you feel my soul leaking through your fingers?”
Souls leak?
But he’s serious. Very serious. And my hand is still on his chest. I don’t want to move it.
Maybe he’s right. Part of him is pouring into me, quenching the dry places in my heart. I nod, unable to speak.
“You have to put your soul into your work,” he says. “Do you want to try?”
“Sure.” I can’t take my eyes off his lips, so naturally pink, so downturned, so...edible.
I allow Chris to grasp my hand and guide me to my easel. He folds my fingers around my paintbrush and stands behind me, his body almost touching mine. When my brush hovers, unmoving, he wraps his hand around mine like he’s going to help me paint, but instead he places his other hand on my shoulder and gently pivots my body until I face him.
When our eyes meet, I nearly lose control of my limbs. His eyes penetrate my heart leaving expertly placed wounds. They will seal up with a kiss, I know. He leans his face toward mine.
My knees finally buckle. I try to catch myself with the easel, but it gives under my weight. I tumble in slow motion, horrified.
Surprise turns down the intensity of Chris’s gaze. He tries to catch me, but I’m too far gone. I fall, splat, on my back, on top of my painting, in a heap of embarrassment. However, the embarrassment quickly turns to panic as my flaming tree penetrates my thin white T-shirt. The painting that is due Monday.
I roll and hop to my knees. My hands instinctively fly to my cheeks. “No!”
The painting is now a very large smudge. Half on the canvas, half on my back. I’ll have to scrap the whole thing and start over.
Chris kneels beside me. He looks stunned.
“That was the klutziest thing I’ve ever done,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” Chris says.
“Don’t be.”