The Dust

The painting took up the entire wall. It was so big, you almost didn’t notice what it was of: the painter herself, in the room it was in, being critiqued by a man in a suit.

“Is this all right?” asked Jacqueline, one foot propped on the ladder, just like in the painting.

Bobby was inspecting his own image. He stood next to himself, slightly larger, and squinted at his liking, which stood looking at Jacqueline’s, arms crossed and frowning.

“Well…I was expecting something different.”

She stepped back and stood, hand on hip, trying to take it all in. After a few moments she took the ladder and moved it six inches to the left.

“Like this?”

“Yes, that’s closer,” he said. He cupped his chin in his hand and still looked pensive. He frowned.

“I could start from scratch, you know,” she offered.

“No, don’t bother.”

“Okay. As long as you’re satisfied.”

“Are you?”

“Am I? Of course I am.”

He crossed his arms and sighed. “Well, now that that’s settled, how about we figure out how you are going to deal with the problem.”

She hooked her thumbs in her overalls and looked at him inquisitively. “The problem,” she said.

“Yes,” he said impatiently. “How are you doing to deal with it?” He began pacing in front of the painting, as if he was looking for a way out. He snooped around the edges, by the floor, along the corners. There was no give. The canvas must have been exactly the dimensions of the wall. He looked nervously behind him at the clock. It was unnerving that the clock in the painting read the same time.

Jacqueline watched him, amused. “You don’t think things are fine as they turned out?”

“Some things are, well, up in the air.”

“Well, sure.”

He looked at his watch repeatedly, distracted, and continued to poke frantically at the edge of the painting on his hands and knees.

Jacqueline tapped her foot, as if she were dealing with a stubborn child. “What do you expect me to do that couldn’t also end up making things worse?”

Bobby was crawling on the floor now, searching for a gap between the canvas and the wood. He looked up when she finished speaking, first at her and then at the painting. Suddenly his eyes widened and he began to back up slowly. Eyes sweeping left and right, he brought his hands to his head in horror and let his mouth hang upon. When he finally was able to speak, he sputtered: “Jacqueline. Where is the door?”

She continued to watch him, bemused, the beginnings of a smile betraying her composure.

“Oh,” she said finally. “I didn’t paint one.”