by Jami Smith

Created on: November 05, 2008

THE PAINTER'S WIFE

Monica's depressed about everything. Everything around her, and about her, sags. She sits cross-legged on her mattress, her shoulders dragging her neck down. Across the room, her eyes stare from the mirror, so much bloodshot white, the lower rim like a plum with the skin pushed down and bulging. Black hair falls from a straight part in the middle of her head. An open notebook rests in her lap. Her lips are thin, unhappiness compressed, held in. She's only thirty-three.

Her eyes move from the mirror to the walls. She stares at them, blank white, but with gray smudges like erased pencil tracings where the paint is thin. They hold more promise than the blank paper in front of her. She glances down, at the space under the bed. Her life peeks out from where she had stored it, cached in boxes. Back to the walls.

She could ask her husband paint them. Andre paints for everyone else, interiors and exteriors. Cabochon Blue on Mrs. Thompson's white bedroom walls. Monica had wallowed in the cloud of her down comforter, oblivious to the smell of latex, while he painted the sky around her. And Sun Butter Yellow at that house on Bleeker Street. At that one she'd luxuriated in a huge claw foot tub while he painted, the scent of lavender coiling out of the water, bubbles tickling her chin. All the while she imagined the lives of these people. Mrs. Thompson had billowy silk nightgowns and naughty red teddies in her drawers. But look in her closet. Suit after suit lined up on hangers like soldiers in formation, their corresponding shoes marching along underneath. And at Bleeker Street. MMM-mmm. There, she found bottles of pills when she opened up the medicine cabinet. She spent 30 minutes reading labels until Andre came in, snatched a bottle out of her hand, put it back, and slammed the mirror shut. Her face appeared where all the vials had been a moment ago. Anxiety, depression, and insomnia hidden behind the faade. But there were smiley face magnets all over the refrigerator. And a lot of makeup in the vanity. What a load this woman had to hide. Or maybe it was the man. She hadn't noticed who took what. Maybe he needed all the medication to keep up with the smiley faces. Maybe she was a domineering woman, bossing him around and insulting him all the time. But she was a pillar of the community wasn't she, her daybook filled with luncheons for charity and silent art auctions. Monica would have chosen Sun Butter Yellow, too. Something to brighten things up, make

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