“My address?”
Raya nodded. “And make sure you put the right date. It has to be a time before you sent your last painting to the gallery.”
“Why?”
“Someone you’ve known all your life deserves a private tour of your studio, don’t you think?”
Q walked around his home studio, reacquainting the tips of his fingers with the corners of furniture and walls. His steps were cautious, as though he were feeling his way around with a walking stick. Being able to see in a place where he had only ever lived in the dark was as disorienting as navigating an unfamiliar location when he was blind.
“These are incredible, Q.” Raya lingered over the paintings leaning against the studio’s white brick walls.
“Thank you,” Q mumbled. His paintings looked different now that he could see them in their entirety. The desperation and anger in each of his brushstrokes were on full display. Turpentine stung his nose. “Can we go?”
“Go?” Raya glanced up from a painting of a woman’s lower lip. “We just got here.”
“You’ve seen everything.” The studio had been his sanctuary, a place where he knew he wasn’t going to trip and fall. Now, its wallsclosed in on him, pressing his old life against his bones. “There’s nothing left.”
Raya touched his arm. “What’s wrong?”
Q sat on a paint-splattered couch, resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay here.”
“Why not? Your work is amazing, Q. You should be proud.”
Q lifted his head, surveying his failed attempts to know the woman who visited his dreams. “I can’t help but feel that at the flick of a switch, everything will go dark.”
“It won’t,” Raya said. “I promise.”
“I thought we weren’t making any promises.” Q watched the sun stream into his studio but could not feel its warmth.
“I’m making an exception for this one. You won’t lose your sight, Q. You’ll never leave anything unfinished again. You’ll be able to paint anything you like. The sky, the stars.”
You.Q was grateful that their tether let him keep his thoughts to himself. If he were braver, he would ask Raya to sit for him and gently tilt her chin to catch the light. She didn’t need to know that posing for him wasn’t necessary. He could paint her with his eyes closed. He had hoarded all the details he needed. The real challenge was painting her with his eyes open. Two women lived in her skin: one whose songs could heal, and one who refused to be healed by them. With a single canvas to tell two stories, Raya’s portrait would be the hardest one he would ever paint.
“Q?” Raya said.
He stood up. “I’m sorry. I should never have agreed to come here. It feels too real. Too close. I already feel it dragging me back.”
“I understand.” Raya nodded. “Let’s go.”
“But there’s something I need to do first.” He shoved a table and easel aside, clearing a space in the middle of the room.
“What are you doing?” Raya’s voice tightened. Her heart clenched next to Q’s, but he had no words to soothe it.
“Cleaning up.” Q settled on an answer that was the closest to the truth. He gathered his paintings and tossed them over the floor. He marched to a supply closet and took out a box of matches.
“With matches? What are you really doing, Q?”
“Decoupling myself from all ofthis.” He struck a match and flung it to a crumpled drop cloth he never used. A flame flickered and grew within its folds. “I’m never going back, Raya. Ever.”
“What about everything you said about my songs?” Raya coughed from the smoke. “You didn’t want me to throw them away, but here you are, making a funeral pyre of your work.”
“Your songs heal.” Q’s eyes followed the coils of smoke on their path to the ceiling. “These paintings were my disease.”
Raya’s eyes flew over the scattered paintings. She ran to the drop cloth and stomped the fire out.
“This is my choice to make, Raya.” Q glared at the extinguished flame and took another match from the box.
“I know why you can’t remember her face.” Smoke curled around Raya’s boots. “Look at your paintings.”
