• Home

Truly Bohemian

Posted on January 28, 2007
Filed Under The Stories |

The dominant feeling associated with death is one of utter helplessness. Whether the cause is bleeding from a gunshot wound in a war zone or the slow onset of cancerous decay, the individual is made painfully aware of approaching oblivion. There is nothing to do while the dark shroud takes its time enveloping an individual who collected or discarded the memories of thousands of lunches, dinners, trips to the bathroom, alcoholic beverages, drags on aromatic cigarettes and kisses, stolen or otherwise. This is probably why people who die in their sleep pass on with a relatively peaceful expression on their faces. Everyone else clings to a grimace, almost as their final rebellion against the inevitability that is the circle of life.

In moments of terrible heartache or surprising sadness, people have been known to claim that they are dying. In actuality it is that same feeling of helplessness that they recognize, but don’t associate with the end of their lives, that causes them to feel that way.

Ingrid was having such a moment right now. She thought to herself, I am dying. The truth was a part of her would die today. A small slice of naiveté was leaving her even as her eyes accustomed themselves to the scene before her eyes. Her mind went back over the past few moments, the trouble she had finding her key, the noise they made when she dropped them in her hurry to penetrate the lock and the minor jiggling that had been required before the lock actually pushed the relevant chambers out of the way so that she could shove the door inwards and finally step into her own apartment.

It occurred to her that all of that noise had caused no change in the scene her eyes were still struggling to adjust to. She wanted very much to be able to blink and have it all disappear but that particular miracle didn’t appear to be hers to perform today. So she took it all in. The unbearably fat woman who was lying on her side, every inch of her wobbling flesh covered in red paint. Her tiny piggy eyes were looking in her direction so there was no way she hadn’t noticed that someone had just walked in through the front door. Still she just lay there, on the giant white canvas, that could barely contain her girth. She was grunting softly and shuddering periodically and just as Ingrid was becoming used to the idea that there was a grossly fat naked woman heaving and grunting on a white canvas in her living room, she saw the other woman. This one was thinner, actually this was a normal-sized woman and she was covered in blue paint. Just as naked as the other one, the one painted blue was wearing what she could only imagine was a strap-on and the reason for the fat one’s periodic grunts and thrusts suddenly became abundantly clear.

She tried blinking again. They were still there. She didn’t know what to say, or do.

That’s when her husband poked his head around the door and smiled at her, “Hey honey. Back early?”

“Er yeah…what’s going on Bob?”

“Oh this,” he smiled and stepped forward, as naked as every Friday night, when they made love for exactly twenty minutes. “This is Lisa,” the fat one grunts and attempts what she can only assume is a smile, ‘and that is Melanie,” the thrusting one raises a hand in acknowledgment. “guys, say hello to Ingrid.”

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

She pulls him aside, mildly relieved that he’s not aroused, “What are you doing?”

“Oh yeah, we’re trying some large format canvasses.”

“We?”

“Well actually it’s just me. Lisa and Melanie are just the brushes. The name of this piece is Taxes. Yeah, you get it?”

“Whatever happened to just painting the thing yourself?”

“Oh, that’s just so eighteenth century.”

“And why are you naked?”

“I always paint naked. Besides it makes the brushes feel more comfortable.”

He looked at her furrowed brow and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s no longer truly bohemian to use an actual brush or scatter pots of paint. The people want to feel the humanity in these uncertain times,” he turned to look at the two women, “we shouldn’t be much longer. Just have to wait for Lisa to dry up and start chafing a bit. It’s totally useless if she enjoys what’s happening to her…”

Ingrid could never be completely sure he actually said everything she thought she’s heard. He smiled and returned to his ‘canvas,’ squatted before Lisa and turned to look over his shoulder at her, “Hey you want to get started on dinner?”

Comments