Page 11 of Portrait of A Lost Artist

“You don’t know what you’re doing, right?” Mom whispers into the air and I lift my head to catch her rubbing at her palms as if they didn’t have skin on them. She always aims to leave every place spotless, even herself.

“I’m not...mom, I’m not in the mood to talk about it right now.” I tell her. If I’m lucky, she might drop the subject, but I’ve never been a charmed individual.

“Oh, but I am,” Mom says, throwing the towel she had in between her hands to the counter.

“You were the one showing yourself to an older man when you were younger and you finally got him, but you decide to destroy everything just because of your insecurity? Men are like this. They won’t always have it figured out, but you’re there to coax them to what they should do. ”

“No.” I stop her, frowning at her words. “I am not here to teach him what he should do. Fuck, I’m not his mom to start with.”

“Don’t curse at me. I’m just trying to help you.”

“Helping me be a miserable wife. I get it, that’s all you’ve ever wanted from me and I would have given my whole soul to become Lorenzo’s wife, but if he’s willing to hurt me now, I can’t imagine what he would do if he truly had me for a lifetime.”

My mom shakes her head at my words, disappointed at what I am mustering. As always, I am the child that goes against her mindset, the rules and plans that she had set out for me to go with.

“He made a mistake.”

“So? I don’t have to forgive him.”

“You two have spent years pining over each other. You’re willing to ruin that just because he was...” Mom breathes in and out deeply. “Lorenzo told me what happened.”

“Oh my God,” I roll my eyes at her words.

“Well, I’ll give you the version that is true to what I lived.

I came here during your anniversary thinking it’d be my time.

Me and Ezequiel had spoken about us becoming siblings now that Lorenzo was going to propose to me, but the moment I went to look for him, he was getting sucked off by some prostitute. ”

“I—” Mom places a hand against her forehead. “He made a mistake. You know Lorenzo and his family are from a good upbringing. He'd never hurt you.”

“But he did, and that’s what I’m staying with.” I retort. Mom’s face visibly hardens, but before she could add more fuel to the fire that has ignited within me, I pick up the keys to my place. “Mom, I should head back home now. Could you hurry so we can close Aseré?”

“Don’t rush me.” She scolds, though she’s moving on her own accord to pick up her purse. “I’m just trying to—”

“ Mom. ”

“Fine, we’ll talk about it some other time.”

I sure hope that time doesn’t come.

When she’s toying with the locks at the door, I play with the mailbox by the entrance and its thin layer of paper that barely peeks out.

I extract it from the clutter without a second thought, but as I unfold the jagged edges and examine the tattered envelope adorned with my name, a wave of realization washes over me.

Nathan must have acted quickly; it dawns on me that perhaps this letter was sent a while ago.

I fold it and save it in my wallet for me to read later. Perhaps not tonight, but when my heart feels a little more lightweight and hopeful.

Three days after my meeting with Lorenzo, the only way I can find myself calm is while painting.

The idea came to me in a rush, with my hands aching to put the paint to work on an empty canvas set that Alessia had given me for my birthday.

The biggest one shall welcome my idea this time around, with bright colors and the spice of Cuba bleeding through every motion.

I imagined a woman tugging her lover closer by the Cuban flag, in front of one of those typically antique Volkswagens that we see around the streets in the city.

A goodbye with a smile on his lips and tears brimming her eyelashes.

At first, I spent the few free hours I had working in the background; perfecting clouds and people bustling.

I make details out of nothing, like a man’s white tank top and the pebbles on the flooring.

At some point in the night, when eleven strikes the clock, I’m starving and I can’t bring myself to pull away from the imagery in front of me.

I’m barely starting with the Volkswagen and I still have to work on the details in the back, but my mind is such an ambitious mess that I can’t stop myself.

Not when my feet are splashed with the vibrant yellow of the car, and my hair clings to my forehead in damp, wild curls as I endure the sweltering heat of my living room.

A single sheet lies scattered across the floor, serving as a fragile barrier against the impending chaos that could unfold at any moment.

I could order take out. Definitely not from Aseré, but pizza doesn’t sound so wrong. Jorge must have his place open at this time, and it’s not too far away from home. Besides, he could give me a discount with the delivery and since I still have to pay the fee for my house—

When I reach for my wallet, hands thankfully dried in its painted state with glimpses of red and brown, I realize that the letter Nathan had written for me remains there.

I had forgotten about it, or perhaps brought myself to do so.

After all, I haven’t really felt like talking to anyone these past few days.

Basking in solitude, replaying memories, plastering them on my mind.

Veronica,

I took a little longer than expected to write back.

Sorry about that. I had been trying my best not to pick up the dictionary to write this, and it took me so many fucking tries only for me to fail.

I’m trying to learn Spanish, so that’s why some of these sentences look like they were written by a three-year-old.

I’ve tried it all when talking about alcohol.

A secret between you and me, but I have my own issues with drinking.

..I can have anything, from beers to champagne.

I’m trying to get that behind me so I can remember who I was when I was sober, but I would be lying to myself (and you) if I said I don’t crave it from time to time.

I’ll have you as my guest to recommend me Cuban drinks that don’t get me back to square one.

I asked my friend who is teaching me Spanish (Identity Unknown; he asked me to keep it a secret) what the rules for accentuations are.

There are three words that can explain that.

Words that are ‘Agudas’, ‘Graves’, ‘Esdrújulas’.

Your name is the latter. That word sounds so weird; I have yet to learn how to pronounce it. (Time to use LOL, I guess?)

Truth be told, I’ve never really gone through heartbreak.

Yes, I’m twenty-six; I should know what heartbreak is like, but I don’t.

I’ve never loved someone enough for me to stay.

I guess you could say that I haven’t had the chance to stay for long enough.

That sounds like I always run away, but I don’t.

People around me don’t really care about that.

But I can only do what I can offer, and that’s having a friend to talk to.

I’m not sure how we can communicate since my Spanish is poor, and I would feel embarrassed to speak to you face to face, but we can try.

For now, letters are fine. I can read what you have to say, even if it’s just snippets of what you want me to know about you.

I’ll give you a few facts, if that helps you.

Hi, I’m Nathan. I’m twenty-six years old.

I was born and raised in Los Angeles, California.

Laugh all about it, I’m a Beverly Hills child, so different from everything in Havana.

My favorite color is red. I enjoy washing dishes, but I’m awful at it.

I am amazing at drawing and painting, though I haven’t done it in a while and I’m trying to get back to it. ..

And I think you’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve seen in so long, so if drawing you will make you notice what I watch each time I see you, prepare for letters with a sketch at the end.

Tell me about you, woman with the overalls.

At the end is a drawing of me, though it is a rough sketch overall, with my fingers threaded in between the straps of my overalls, pulling at them with a flush to my face.

My lip is caught between my teeth, and I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the moment.

I imagine what an odd sight it must have been—me, trying to wrestle with my own swirling thoughts while simultaneously gathering the courage to hand him the letter I had so carefully written.

I dart through the rooms of the house, my urgency fueling each hurried step as I seek out paper and a pen.

The familiar scent of old canvas and dust fills the air, grounding me as I finally find a blank sheet.

With the ink gliding smoothly across the page, I unleash the thoughts swirling in my mind, pouring my heart out onto the paper.

In this moment, it feels as though I’ve discovered a confidant, a silent companion who listens without judgment, entirely separate from the tangled emotions associated with Lorenzo.

Just when I’m midway through the letter, I realize that I don’t know where Nathan is staying; neither can I find him at Aseré because he doesn’t work there anymore.

Shit, maybe that was our goodbye, unknowingly.

Isn’t that for the best?