“Well, they’re mine to do with what I want,” she said to me. She had the grey-blue eyes that old people get and they shimmied just a little bit when she locked on to you. Pierced you. I wanted to question her but couldn’t. It made sense and I doubted myself.
Louise Hammerman was my high school art teacher and she’d taken several paintings of mine, finished them individually, then spliced them together into a large piece in 2 rows of three. She’d then put a wide stripe across the top and another across the bottom. The stripe was beige, maybe alabaster, and was raised on the edges and filled with a small, detailed pattern in relief.
Next the fog was thicker and it was revealed because I was up the stairs and rubbing strawberries on her face. She wasn’t moving, her doll eyes fixed on the ceiling. I had a blanket on her and I had to run back downstairs from the loft several times. But I’m not sure what I was looking for. Someone was shadowing me. Following.