#117 Subjective

by Joni Abilene

On the first night of her lover’s new painting Jane said, “Is it Picasso exploding into a harpsichord mambo?”

Joseph thought for a half-century of minutes and answered, “Hmmm, no. Try again.”

On the second night of her lover’s new painting Jane said, “A fallen angel bursting into Heaven with forgiveness on his bloodied wings?”

Joseph pulled out a Gitanes and said with a smile, “Still wrong, my dear. I’m afraid it’s a subjective piece.”

“But I’ll get it,” she said.

On the third night of her lover’s new painting Jane said, “The iceberg’s heart after it pierced the Titanic’s hull.”

Joseph grunted. He had just walked in the door and had barely taken off his rain-drenched overcoat. “You’re too eager to define the impossible.”

“Damn you,” she said, and would not kiss him that night.

On the fourth night of her lover’s new painting Jane said, “Auschwitz when it was set free.”

Joseph said nothing. They both looked out the window and watched the moon cross rooftops.

Winter passed in long days of white butterflies that speared themselves onto junipers and fighting eyelashes. It wasn’t until spring that Jane tried making another guess. She was pregnant by then, and liked to lay on the wood floor with her bare belly soaking up daylight. Her hair spread like a tapestry when she turned to Joseph, a smile on her face. “Is it me?”

Joseph touched her abdomen with a soft kiss. “It is all of us.”