Fixation
The painting came with the house. Ornate oak framing and unfinished back upon the mantle. A simple spattering of shape to gaze upon whilst claiming the rocking chair, fire stirring satiety and vitriol alike.
A woman with straw-colored hair and a youthful flush wearing the boxiest white linen dress possible—Sal liked to imagine it was the first image in an artist’s 10-year progress series. Still, it was not bad, and each day he stood to appreciate it just a little more.
One day he took note of the texture of the ringlets which barely grazed her shoulders. It looked like hundreds of strands were independently illustrated with delicacy rivaling fine silk. Another time he almost laughed as he noticed that it did not show the woman’s eyes closed at all but had eyes so clear blue they glowed with the depth of our galaxies.
The smile was not quaint as he once thought but displayed lips gently upturned and sparkling white teeth in a coquettish invite. The cheeks once defined by their cherubic reflections were in fact hollowed and angled like the very representation of a Hollywood beauty.
Each night he stared, waiting for his newest revelation, and she stared back almost thanking him for his acknowledgement. Cordelia, he named her, having habituated himself into talking to her as many hours his life would allow. He would repeat it as a mantra so it would be the last thing to grace his lips each gasp before sleep.
From the forward tilt of her shoulders and the nervous swallow that followed, he just knew she would have loved that. The night he fell asleep on the rocking chair was her favorite as she reached out a clawed hand and pushed off with her legs—determined to steal his last breath.