allegro

She tried to see it
Truly she did.
He said, "Now that is art.
What do you think?"

He really wanted her opinion.

She looked.
There were lines. She could still see the lines.
There was light, there was dark. She could still see that.
There were two children, one in the light. Frozen in play. She saw them.
She recognized them too. They were hers.

Perhaps she was supposed to see how the light and the lines brought incredible life to the subjects, how the pale sepia tone of the print makes it even more dramatic.

Perhaps she was supposed to have taken pride in taking it, or appreciation for the man who had it framed.

But all she could feel was pain of memory. That was the day Emma broke her ankle after she told Patrick not to play so hard. There was the trip to the hospital and missing work, losing that job, eating only spaghetti for a month and a half, the threat of eviction, the afternoons she screamed at the children for minor infractions, the nights spent crying in the bathroom.

And if you look close, you can see the scrape on Patrick's face that earned him that warning.

So she couldn't see it.
She wanted to say, "I can't see it. I lived it. Leave me alone."
But he was doing nice things for her, and he might be able to sell the print. No one tried to do that before. He wanted to sleep with her, and it had been so long, it didn't matter that he was married; it's not as if she could date anyway

She didn't really want to, but she lied anyway.

"Yes, I see it."