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Sam: Good. We’re boarding the plane to come home now. I’ll be back tonight.
My heart rate quickens.
Me: Helen was here this morning. She disinfected the apartment.
Helen is Sam’s house cleaner. I don’t mention that Milo was here, too, though Sam probably already knows. I don’t feel like poking the bear right now. Though Sam keeps him around so he must like his food.
Sam: I’m too strong to get your weak germs. I never get sick.
Me: Famous last words, superstar.
Sam: I haven’t caught it yet. Even though you stuck your tongue down my throat when the germs were multiplying.
Me: That’s not how I remember it.
Sam: I’m surprised you remember anything with as drunk as you were.
Me: Stop throwing stones. I remember a time when you lived your life drunk. And bring me something lemon home. I need the vitamin C. I looked for that cupcake you had in the pantry before, but it was gone.
Sam: I ate it.
Me: Of course you did.
Me: If I don’t make it through this illness, I want my ashes thrown into the lake.
Sam: Why bother being cremated? I’ll just throw your dead body in whole.
Me: How kind of you.
Sam: Fish food.
I giggle, glad he can’t see me so I can continue to feign contempt. Plus, the giggle quickly turns into another coughing fit, reminding me I’m on the mend, but not quite well yet.
Sam: I need to sign off now. But check the last room in your hallway.
Me: Why?
He doesn’t answer, but I know he sees it because he leaves me on Read. I stumble down the hallway with my messy, unwashed hair and bare face while wearing my old, ratty pajamas. I’ve worn them like a uniform the past four days straight.
The door to the room at the end of the hall is closed. I twist the knob, my eyes widening when I see the scene before me. It’s a dream, like walking into a staged art room at a store. Every color of oil paint, the exact brand I prefer, sits neatly organized in a container, unopened and brand-new. There’s an easel and different sizes of blank canvases. Charcoal. Colored pencils for sketching. Notebooks full of blank white paper, just waiting for images to fill the pages. Empty mason jars full of every size brush you can imagine. A small table and chairs where I can work. Extra lights around for brightness.
I walk around the space, dragging my fingers across all my favorite things, wondering when Sam had time to arrange this. And wondering what convinced him to do it in the first place.
I’ve always wanted a space like this. A place dedicated to my art, where I can go inside and close the world outside off with a door. I can be as messy or as neat as I want because it won’t bother anyone else. It’s my space. Mine. But Sam doesn’t know that. I’ve never shared it with him. How could he know?
I look around in awe, and it’s like Sam stepped inside of my head and pulled out my wildest dreams. If I was given anything in the entire world, this room would be what I wished for. A place dedicated solely to my art. My eyes fill with unshed tears. I flip my phone over.
Me: I don’t know what to say.
Me: Thank you.
I allow the screen to go black, knowing Sam won’t see the message until they land. I explore the room until I grow tired, my body still weak from sickness and my energy low. I close the door and promise myself to start painting as soon as I can, still overwhelmed by the unexpected sentiment. I grab a blanket from my bed and continue to the couch, lying with my head on the pillow at the end, and turn my attention to the television. I start a movie, my eyelids drifting lower until they shut completely halfway through.
The closing of the front door awakens me later that night. The flickering of the television is the only light present in the dark apartment.
“No, I didn’t forget. I’ll be there.”
I peek over the couch to see Sam with a phone pressed to his ear while leaving his bag next to the kitchen island. He flips on the overhead lights. I give him a small wave when he notices me on the couch.
