What Happens in Paris. Nancy Robards Thompson

      My breath hitched. I loved foxgloves and these looked good, if I did say so myself. There was a whole planter full of them across the courtyard from my studio. The slide reminded me of how soothing it was to lose myself in the painting process.

      If nothing else, at least I had my art. Something to call my own, something constant in this world of madness.

      Rita handed me another slide, and then another until we established a silent rhythm of viewing and changing. My discard pile grew. Her handoff pile waned. We sank into the comfortable silence that sisters weren’t compelled to fill.

      When I’d viewed the last slide, Rita said, “They look good, huh?”

      “Yeah, they do. Thanks for photographing them, Ri.”

      She nodded, chewing her bottom lip as if she had something else to say.

      “What?” I asked, putting the slides back into their sleeves.

      “Don’t kill me, okay?”

      “Why would I do that? You’re not going to tell me you’ve slept with Blake, too, are you?”

      She scrunched up her nose. “Ew. No.”

      “Oh, I forgot, you’re not his type. You don’t have a penis.”

      My sister didn’t laugh.

      I held up the transparency of the foxgloves to the light and looked at it again, and when I looked over at her she shot me a weird sort-of smirk.

      “You know it would be really good for you to get away from here. Go somewhere fresh where the word penis doesn’t automatically evoke nightmares.”

      “What are you talking about?”

      I nudged the last slide into place, skimmed the sleeve to the center of the table and turned my attention to Rita.

      “You know I shot two sets of slides, right?”

      “No, I didn’t know that. Is it a problem?”

      “Only if you hate me for sending them to Paris…with the artist-in-residency application.”

      I crossed my arms in front of me. “You did what?”

      “I sent your work—”

      “I heard you the first time. I just— Rita, I can’t go to Paris. I told you that. That’s why I didn’t send them myself.”

      She pulled out a stool and perched on the edge of it. “I know you did. Your mind is kind of on automatic pilot.”

      I threw up my hands. “Well, I’m kind of preoccupied trying to figure out how I’ll take care of myself after I’m divorced. As of right now, that plan does not include moving to Paris for three months.”

      She looked disappointed and lowered her voice the way our mother used to when she tried to win us over to her way of thinking. “Why can’t you see that would be the very best way for you to take care of yourself? A change of scenery, a change of career.”

      I hated this logical side of my sister. I walked over to my easel and picked up my brush. “Okay. Okay. Fine. I’m not going to fight with you over this. Thank you for thinking enough of my work…for thinking enough of me—”

      The words burned the back of my throat, and made my eyes water. I swallowed hard.

      “Thank you for doing that for me. But you know, you have to stop—”

      I shook my head and stabbed my brush in the gob of cadmium yellow on my palette so hard the bristles flared.

      “What were you going to say?”

      Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rita stand.

      “That I have to stop interfering with your cocoon-building? Well, I’m not going to, Anna.”

      I swiped a slash of yellow across the canvas. “This is not worth fighting over. Tell me where I can find a telephone number and I’ll call and withdraw.”

      “Withdraw?” She laughed and stood behind me, but I didn’t turn around. “If you feel the need to withdraw, then you think you might win a spot.”

      I shrugged, and dipped my brush into the black paint. “I don’t. I don’t know what I think. Just stop.”

      “Why would you not go for this?”

      A funnel of fear rose and whirled around my stomach, but I ignored it, focusing instead on how I should’ve been mad at my sister for putting me in this position; for going against my wishes and entering my work in that contest. And I would’ve been mad at her if I hadn’t been so numb. But despite the numbness, deep inside in the very center of my soul, down in the tiny little speck of heart that hadn’t frozen solid, I knew she was right. Only, there was a wide cavern between what I should do and what I was capable of doing just then.

      “Well, Ri, I’ll add painting in Paris to my to-do list right behind finding a decent divorce attorney and securing another place to live because Blake is barking about putting the house on the market.”

      She clucked her tongue and sighed. Loudly. As if she’d just learned I’d pierced my nipples and planned to shave my hair into a Mohawk.

      “Look, it’s easy to judge when your ass isn’t on the line,” I said over my shoulder.

      “Yeah, I guess so. And I guess it’s easy to use Blake as an excuse for not living your life. As big a bastard as he is, he’s not the one keeping you from Paris. You’re doing this to yourself.”

      I whirled to face her. “That is so unfair.”

      “I know it is. The entire scenario that’s brought you to this juncture sucks. But Anna, what would really be unfair is if you used this crap as an excuse to curl up into a little ball and fade away.”

      I turned back to my canvas before the first tears broke free and meandered down my cheek. I wiped them away with my sleeve.

      “You blame Blake for taking away your life. Don’t give him your soul.”

      I heard Rita’s sandals clicking on the concrete floor, walking away from me. I wanted to shout at her, If I’d wanted to go to Paris I would have sent in the damn application myself. Well, okay, I wanted to go to Paris. Someday. Just not right now.

      Arrgh. Too much. Too much. Too much was coming at me too fast.

      “I have a challenge for you.” My sister’s voice was softer. I glanced over to see her hitching her purse up on her shoulder.

      “Don’t withdraw. Just let the application ride. Toss it up to fate and see what happens. Okay?”