“No, no,” said Frank. “She’s enough for me. Here—”
As tenderly as he could, he cupped the sugar glider against his chest with one hand and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket with the other. He could feel her heart pulsing softly beneath her fur against his fingers. He pulled out three $100 bills and handed them to the woman.
“You sure?” She looked down at the money. “But you’re only taking one.”
“Please,” he said. “I insist. For having me in your home.”
He accepted a shoebox with holes punched in the top to transport the creature home. It started to rain as he was walking back to the subway, so he hailed the first cab he saw and sat with the box held tightly on his lap the whole ride back downtown. The traffic lights smeared past the window in streaks of amber and green. Fat rain droplets glowed on the glass. Frank leaned forward in the steamy warmth of the back seat and found himself whispering quietly through the holes of the shoebox, little nonsenses and pleasantries that were foreign to his tongue. Yes, that’s right honey baby, sugar love, sweet thing, we’re going home.
Frank let himself into the dark apartment and found Cleo lying on the sofa under a pyramid of light from a lamp. She did not stir at the sound of the door. She had her back to him, curled into the sofa with a book in front of her face. She was wearing a baggy pair of jeans and a large cashmere sweater of his. The soles of her bare feet were brown with dirt. With the tips of his fingers, Frank touched the back of her head. Her golden hair was dulled by the winter, and knots were visible in the back.
“Cleo honey,” he said. “I have something for you.”
She twisted to face him. Her cheeks were flushed. A look of confusion and upset stained her face. He placed his hand on her neck, which was warm and damp, and pecked the side of her temple. He’d placed the box on the floor by the sofa, out of view.
“I was half asleep,” she said. “Have you ever heard of Berthe Morisot?”
“I don’t think so,” said Frank. “But, honey, I want to show you something.”
“Look at this,” said Cleo.
She had a kind of feverish intensity about her. She propped herself up on her elbow and proffered the open pages of the book toward him. It was a painting of a woman sitting before a mirror. Her curved back was turned to the viewer, only her ear and a pale sliver of cheek exposed. The reflection of her face in the glass had deliberately been left blank, void of features or expression. Her hands were piling her dark hair on top of her head, as Eleanor’s had been that day. The background was vivid blue, energetically painted, as if a breeze were moving through the room, stirring everything, the fabric that fell from her shoulders, the red flowers on the nightstand, into motion.
“Very good,” said Frank. “Looks like Degas.”
“No!” Cleo slapped the page in disgust. “Degas looks like Morisot. Degas, Manet, Renoir, Monet … They all admired her, copied her, but has anyone ever heard of her? No! Degas is a hack compared to her. I hate his insipid ballerinas. Look how full of life, of agency, her subjects are by contrast.”
“Yes, yes, I see that,” said Frank, looking vaguely at the painting, which really did look like a Degas to him.
“Degas can suck my dick,” said Cleo fervently.
Frank laughed and took the book from her, setting it aside. He rested his hand on the curve of her waist.
“Did you paint today?” he asked.
She shot up to a seated position, sending his hand tumbling away.
“Why are you asking me that?” she said.
Frank was amused by Cleo in this mood, so impassioned and riled up, though he knew to be wary of it too. He preferred to see her like this, however, than in the dead-eyed despondency in which she’d recently been wallowing. She used to take such care with her appearance; he loved watching her get dressed each day for work. He’d supported her decision to quit doing the textile design, a job she’d sniffed at as beneath her fine art pedigree, to focus on painting. Now he suspected that was a mistake. It wasn’t good for her, all this free time. He was happy to support her financially while she made art, but she’d been painting less and less. And this anger she had about women in the art world, women anywhere, really … Passion was one thing, but hysteria was another. It only seemed to be growing in her as her painting life dwindled.
“Look, I’ve got someone I want you to meet,” he said. “She’s been waiting very patiently, and—”