PORTRAIT OF A DAUGHTER
by Dean Lawson
A match light flash. Lucinda starts a new cigarette. Pale tobacco smoke hangs in the air like Aurora Drifts; in a room lit by two candles, one near a man, the other on a table beside a woman. The Artist makes feverish, inspired lines. His charcoal fingers rubbing out every unsuccessful attempt. There's trouble finding the curve of the cheekbone.
There, at last! Now the eyes.
The woman's left arm is positioned under her breasts. Right elbow pivoted on a rib, the one Adam gave up he explains, the arm a White Birch leaning out over a cliff, he tells her.
"Are you cold, should I adjust the thermostat?" he says.
She is, but just shakes her head through more smoke.
He remembered then, as the smoke directed straight towards him, her eyes. Shared a taxi with her about a month ago out on Bowery, gave her his card and asked if she was interested in a little work.
"Thanks for making it up here," he says, "need a break?"
Lucinda puts the cigarette in her mouth, grabs a blanket from off the floor, gets up and wraps it around her.
"How about some coffee?" he says.
The Artist stands up, walks to the other side of the loft, one hand messing the top of his head like he doesn't care what his appearance is.
Lucinda walks around looking at the sketches on the walls, there are dozens of them.
"You draw lots of women, huh?" she says.
Lucinda hears the sound of water running, the squeak of fingers on clean porcelain, then liquid being poured into vessels.
"Yeah, I guess..." he says, "hope black is alright."
He comes back and hands her the mug of coffee.
"You did my Mom once," she says.
Maybe he had, lots of women come through there? Went to bed with most of them too, that's what they came up for, to have the Artist after he had them.
"Well, like I said," he says, "lots come through." Then goes back to his chair like he wants to get back to work.
She's behind him now in the darkest part of the loft. There's a silence until the strike of a match. He turns around and can just make out the portrait she's looking at. Ah yes, same eyes, can't remember her exactly but will say he does.
"She always talked about you," Lucinda says "probably drove my father away, that and cause she was a drunk."
The flame of the match almost touching the portrait before she blows it out.
She walks over to the chair where he's sitting, drops the blanket on the floor in front of him, leans in real cool and says,
"You got any children that you know of mister?"
Dean Lawson is from a small town in Southern Ontario but now lives in Tokyo, Japan. Writing takes up most of his spare time and has thus prevented him from being able to say "I am fluent in both Japanese and English." (Yes, he knows how to say hello in Nihon-go) His wife is expecting their first child this coming Autumn. When he found out he said "Sugoi!" (Japanese for Wow!) So hey, there you go, guess he knows a word or two. Contact Dean.
