A Painter’s Plant

The soil in the pot was bone dry when I walked in. The snake plant I bought them was still sitting on the entry table where I left it, the dust around it evidence of its immobility. The lights were off and the balcony door was wide open though the prime hours for a warm breeze and natural light to fill the room were gone. This left the painter in chilly smears of blues and grays. They lay slumped over their desk on a fallen arm, paint brush only a few rolls away from their thin, tattooed fingers. I hung my purse on the hooks crowded at the bottom with bagged trash, crossed the apartment in a few strides, and pulled the sliding door shut. 

Turning, I stepped behind the dreaming artist to see a glimpse of the most recent world I’d lost them to. On their easel sat a masterpiece still too fresh to be valued. From all the colors of a caucasian corpse came a lonely winter wilderness. It was void of life but still had the evidence it was once there, hidden in the details. It showed a long forgotten fire and footsteps meant to get lost in the trees rather than produce an inhabitant. Even the distant waterfall was frozen still. The snowflakes hung in the air. It was a moment in time of a world I’d never been to.

I wondered, if I could enter that painting, where would I find them? Perhaps in a cabin veiled by thick branches? Maybe ice fishing on a lake or keeping warm by a fire? I wonder, if they were in that world, would they be getting lost in this one? 

I left them and turned to the debris in their wake. I collected the many paper towels and rags littered with imperfect mixtures and took them to their bins. I swept the balled up paint they rubbed from their fingers, the failed sketches and empty colors from the floor. I crossed to the brimming trash and stuffed it all in with a pull of the ties. 

At last I took pity on the poor plant. Of all the dishes in the sink, there were twice as many mugs. The counter was overcome with pill bottles for one affliction or another from their failing system. I found a cup and shifted things enough to rinse and fill it. 

“You don’t need to keep pulling me back,” they said, their voice coming alive for probably the first time in days. 

“Old habit,” I responded without looking back. 

“You’ll never move on like this. I told you to stop coming by, now go.” 

“Moving on was never my choice,” I objected, moving to the plant. I could feel their crystal blue eyes following me, silently protesting my presence. 

“When did you get back?” they asked.

“This morning. You’d know that if you’d answer the phone.” 

Nothing. They weren’t going to dignify my snarkiness with a response when we both knew they hadn't answered my calls in quite some time. 

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to kill this thing?” I asked, lifting the plant to show them how pitiful its leaves were becoming. 

In doing so I looked at them for the first time. Dark bags pulled down at the skin around their eyes. Eyes that looked twice as big between the dark stubble on their shaved head and sunken cheeks.

“I thought it matched the atmosphere better that way,” they said, their tone flat.

Witty as ever and still stubborn. Still beautiful, too. 

“No. No one deserves to be sick alone,” I told them, setting down the plant and grabbing my purse and a couple bags of trash. 

“Leave your key this time.” 

“Why? I’m only running to the store,” I say, then gesturing with one of the garbage bags in my hand I continue, “The plant. It needs friends, that’s why it's browned so quickly. And more sun so probably a stand for the window.” 

“Don’t, come on-”

“Come on what? Did you ask me? Did you ask me if I wanted to be alone on the road for weeks, terrified I wouldn’t be here if something happened? No updates, crying all the time, killing myself to pretend I was enjoying a thousand smiling faces telling me they love my work when the only one I wanted to see was you? You can’t force me to move on, you can only make it harder. I’m back, I’m here. I did the tour, I did what you wanted,” I said, harsher than I meant.

“I’ll change the locks then,” they bluffed. 

“You had two months to do that and look where we are, so what does that say?” I could feel my brows furrowing, my jaw clenching. Everything in me was refusing the tears that threatened to surface. I was done crying. I had cried enough. 

“You can’t make me stop loving you. I have since the day we met and I’m not stopping anytime soon,” I declared. It was their eyes watering now. They looked away as they wiped it. 

“I’ll be back. You better answer when I call this time or I might come back with a tree.”

As I closed the door behind me I heard the smallest combination of a sob and a laugh. 

Ren Thomas