by Rachel Laverdiere

I sigh when I wake to the slant of rain against the thrift shop window because time passes so slowly in the dim light of this thrift shop.  

The watercolour landscape propped up next to me whispers, “You sigh too loudly, Madam.” He’s a gentleman. Understated. In his previous life, he must have hung in a hushed hallway that led to the home’s only restroom. I apologize, explaining that I was the matron of a regal dining room overlooking manicured gardens before arriving here.

The bold acrylics snicker and glare from across the narrow aisle. They gossip loudly about my dull dress and modest decolletage. I cannot be fault them their garish palettes and tawdry dresses. Their unrefined muses lacked corsets, and their painters feared the intricacies of oil.  

I hold my gaze remains steadily askant, lips slightly parted.

I sigh. Drift into memories where I sit poised above a polished walnut mantel. Tender eyes turn my way. The sunlight warms my face and sigh at the splendor of it all. But then the silver and the china disappear. The oak table and chairs and the Persian carpet. I do not want to re-enter the emptying days, but I’ve drifted too deeply. Men I do not recognize turn cold eyes my way. Clear their throats and pry me from my home and toss me atop a pile of discards. I steady the tremors in my hands, hold my shoulders square to keep the ringlets from spilling across my chest and my expression remains dignified.  

I jolt free as strong hands grip and prop me against the unwound grandfather clock. Cold grey eyes study my gaze and moisten as their owner’s fingertips feather across my gilt filigree frame. When my admirer gently lifts and presses me against his chest, I do not blush but a moan escapes my parted lips. 

As I am carried to the till, the watercolours weep, but the acrylics have nothing to say. I hold my chin steady and bid them adieu.  

Carried outside, I sigh. Fresh air enters a slight tear in the stiff brown paper, and I glimpse unkempt lawns beyond chain-link fences, scraggly yellow flowers I do not recognize. I smile when I glimpse a yappy yellow dog. But the man kicks and curses at the dog. He smothers me against his body. The colours disappear. I drift until the man sets me down and tears away my wrappings while I adjust to the fluorescent lights. My proprietor gropes my textured strokes and lays me across a scarlet duvet.  

I worry that my canvas has sagged, that my features have marred and faded, but he is removing the crucifix above the headboard. Saying I will crown his bed. 

I sigh because I’d hoped for a room burgeoning with elevated conversations, bronze busts, seven-course meals. 

While my proprietor hangs me, he talks about the last woman he loved.  

I’d hoped for a cheery room. 

I sigh and sigh as my proprietor recounts how the slut laughed and flirted with other men.  

At least the bright sun shines through the window and there’s a view of children playing in the schoolyard across the street. Their happiness will offset the chill of this room. 

My proprietor steps back and frowns. Shuts the blinds so the sun won’t ruin me. Closes the door when he leaves.  

In the dark, I wonder how the watercolours are adjusting, try to imagine what the acrylics prattle on about now that I’m gone, and I sigh. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rachel Laverdiere writes, pots and teaches in her little house on the Canadian prairies. Find her recent Pushcart and Best of the Net nominated prose in Sundog Literary, Lunch Ticket and Longridge Review. For more, visit www.rachellaverdiere.com or find her on Twitter at @r_laverdiere.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Cyrus Carlson is an abstract artist from the Midwest.