“I must have left my house,” he says. “Stepped outside for air. Or maybe I forgot to come home at all.”
He stands by the kitchen sink, palms flat against the counter. “I have a terrible headache. Will you please answer that phone?”
“There’s no phone here,” I say.
“Through the window I saw candles,” he says. “On every surface. Candle wax dripped onto the woodwork. No one noticed except me.”
There’s an empty painting panel on my easel. I didn’t cut it. Didn’t prime it. It arrived three days ago. Ready to use.
“I could hear them inside. Talking. Music. They all knew each other.”
The light in the studio bends a little. Cooler than it should be. It’s still mid-afternoon.
He moves toward the window. His reflection doesn’t follow.
“I’m not sure why they were there.”
I watch as he moves to the area where I paint.
His facial features begin to appear on the new blank panel next to him. At first, just the hint of eyes. Then the slope of a nose. The curl of hair. A portrait. His neck. No shoulders. The face, at a three quarter pose. A slight smile. As if contemplating something.
He speaks as this is happening.
“There was a toast. Someone’s name came up. I don't remember who the person was. Then, it got blurry. Please answer that phone!”
The paint on the panel darkens, thickens. The eyes sharpen. They are his. But quieter.
He looks down at his hands. Turns them over. Frowns.
“I remember thinking, someone should ask where I am.”
“And no one did,” I say.
“No one did.”
He turns to look at the easel. The panel doesn’t move, but the face on it becomes more him by the moment. The corners of the mouth. That particular slant of uncertainty in the left brow.
He takes a step back. The painting now watches him.
“There’s a moment,” he says, “when you realize no one’s going to notice you. And then you just stop caring. Stop trying.”
The back of his head begins to fade. For a moment, there are two of him: one, watching the painting; the other, captured by it.
He stares. Lifts a hand. Doesn’t touch.
“I wonder,” he says, “if I ever came back from wherever I went.”
The rest of him dissipates. His face stays on the panel. The studio smells of wet paint and candle wax.
I stare for a long time. His portrait is complete. An expression of bewildered amusement. Almost laughing at his own situation.
Outside, the wind moves through the trees like a quiet thought.
I turn the painting to face the wall.
That evening, I lock the studio for the first time in months.
Asleep on the couch, I hear a knock at the door.
When I wake, the front door is wide open.
A cell phone is ringing in the pocket of my old red jacket hanging by the door.