I hesitate.
“I need… painting materials,” I say, like I’m ordering off a menu.
Her smile turns amused. “For you?”
“No,” I say quickly. “For… my wife.”
The word slips out before I can stop it.
Her eyes light up instantly. “Well, isn’t that sweet. Are you newlyweds?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah. We are.”
She reacts like I just gave her wonderful news, her smile widening. “That’s lovely. You can always spot it, you know. The glow.” She tilts her head. “What does she like to paint?”
I’m suddenly aware I don’t know enough. “Acrylic and oil. Photorealistic. Also abstract.”
The clerk nods like that’s helpful. “Budget?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Whatever makes sense.”
She leads me down an aisle, picking up things and explaining them. Different brush types. An easel. A set of high-quality oils. A proper glass palette. Linseed oil. Solvent.
I choose a few things that feel right.
Then I spot something near the front: a small leather sketchbook with thick paper, the kind that can handle multiple mediums.
I pick it up and run my thumb over the cover.
That feels like her.
I add it to the pile.
When I leave the shop, the bag in my hand feels heavy.
***
Half an hour later, I walk back into the house.
I close the door quietly behind me, the bag from the art store hanging low at my side like I’m smuggling something illegal.
The lights are on in the living room. A soft lamp glow spills across the hardwood floor. The painting is still propped above the mantel, richer now, fuller. More alive.
She’s here. I can feel it.
I hear faint movement upstairs. A drawer sliding shut. Soft footsteps.
My chest tightens unexpectedly.
I didn’t think this part through.
Buying the supplies was easy. Giving them to her is something else entirely. It feels… exposed.
I stand there for a second like an idiot, staring down at the bag in my hand.
What exactly am I supposed to say?
Here. A wedding present.
