The Missing Stitch

The pungent sting of turpentine attacks your lungs. It seeps into your pores. Thud. The leather tool bag slips from your trembling hand. The heavy oak door of the studio is still vibrating, groaning on its rusted hinges. You stand there. Frozen in the center of the vast, hollow hall. Faint light trickles down from the skylight, bathing the floor in a bleak, clinical chill. He is sitting there. In front of the massive canvas that dominates the void. The same curved spine. The same rigid shoulders beneath a frayed cotton shirt. The same aggravating way he grips the palette knife. Like he’s holding a dagger. Miles. «Don’t look at his eyes. Don’t look back. Look at the fabric. Focus on the color.» Click. Scrape. The sound of your soles hitting the cold tile fills the silence. Your steps are heavy. You are dragging invisible chains behind you. The air is thick with the dust of dry pigments—floating specks of lead and zinc suspended in the vacuum. You stand beside him now. Nothing separates you but a weathered wooden easel smelling of ancient oil. He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t offer even a nod of recognition. Scritch. Scritch. He continues to scrape the cobalt blue pigmen…