Flash-a-thon #4

Picasso Burns Outside the pharmacy, a girl spins in circles with her arms outstretched. "Look, Mommy. I’m a tornado," she says. I look up at the sky. She could be--clouds are churning like time-lapse animation. I smile a centimeter and she keeps spinning. I begin the walk home with the stapled bag clutched in my bare hands. I’ve long since sold the Saab. Jesus, it’s cold. It’s only quarter to four but it’s dark and the streets look like rush hour as commuters try to beat the snow. "You’re an asshole!" screams one out his window at a woman on her cell phone--she took more than half a second to realize the light had turned green. The mucous in my nose is starting to freeze and my breath is hugely visible. I remember smoking, miss it. I turn onto my street just as a gray BMW rolls by. It stops about twenty feet ahead and the window powers down. "Hi, Mrs. Andrews," I say, as I reach her. "Hi, James. How’s Shelly?" she asks. "Not so good," I reply. "If you ever need anything..." She lets the sentence dangle. "Thanks, Mrs. Andrews. I appreciate it." "Well," she says, and pauses. "You take care, okay?" "Okay, you, too." She waits a few seconds longer, watching me for some sign that I don’t know. I raise my hand in a brief wave. She nods hesitantly before disappearing behind the tinted window and driving slowly away. Inside, the house is frigid. "Shel?" I call, shutting the door behind me. "Back here," she says. Her voice is faint. I find her on the living room couch under several blankets. "Why is it so cold?" I ask. "Gas shut off today," she says. "Oh." I scratch the back of my neck. I toss the bag on the coffee table and press my lips gently to her forehead. "Let me get you some water." "Thanks." The pipes clank as I fill a glass at the kitchen sink. I let the faucet drip so the pipes won’t freeze. From the other room, I hear her coughing. It sounds a lot worse, and I think of a night filled with blood-soaked tissues. We need a fire. I spent the last of the payday loan on the medicine. There’s little left to sell, and, even assuming I can make it there before they close, the pawn shop is a two-mile walk. The wood from the coffee table lasts about an hour. I don’t sleep. She sleeps fitfully, as I feed the fire with broken furniture. The sight of the used Kleenex makes my eyes burn and I set each one ablaze, a quick poof. I’ve run out of furniture. The lacquer belched black smoke, which increased the supply of stained tissues. I wish we hadn’t sold all our books. The fire starts to die around dawn. She is sleeping. I pace the house, looking for flammable objects, and my eyes alight on my guitar. If only the fire would last a few more hours, I could pawn the guitar. I haven’t played it in years. She gave it to me on our first anniversary. It’s not an expensive guitar, a Takamine Jasmine. On its body, though, is a reproduction she did of Picasso’s "Old Man With Guitar." I suddenly feel ancient. I pick it up and strum an open E. It’s badly out of tune. I pluck harmonics and twist pegs as I walk to the fireplace. The E is still not quite right as I set the guitar in a bed of embers. Through the window, I see the first snowflakes fall. Strings pop and blue-black smoke rises as Picasso burns. Shelly’s breathing stills.