Loretta

She might have painted the sea— or a golden field of wheat beneath a hazy summer sky— but he took her brushes, left the bristles splayed, the paints dried out, and the turpentine cloudy. And though she said nothing, her easel disappeared one day like a wispy cloud no one missed. After that, she painted nothing but dinner. They had imagined themselves sharing a studio but he needed all the mirrors, so she became one— reflecting his genius, and tilting her angles to catch his best light— sitting quiet in the corners, while her palette faded slowly beneath his brilliance. She never called it giving up— just life, unfolding. Maybe she took comfort in recipes, in the hush of rising dough, in setting the table just so. But I wonder if sometimes, she’d pass the studio and something nameless would tighten in her throat— not quite regret, not quite peace. Perhaps both.