One depicts two deer on a cliff. The other is a “Where’s Waldo at the Zoo.” I carry them downstairs and toss them on the table. “Puzzle race,” I say. Isaac looks a little taken back.
“Seriously?” he asks. “You want to play a game?”
“Seriously. And it’s a puzzle, not a game.”
He leans back and stretches his arms over his head while he considers this. “We stop at the same time for bathroom breaks,” he says firmly. “And I get the deer.”
I extend my hand and we shake on it.
Ten minutes later we are sitting across from each other at the table. It is so large in circumference that there is plenty of room for both of us to spread out with our respective thousand pieces. Isaac sets two mugs of coffee between us before we start.
“We need some rules,” he announces. I slide my mug over and hook a finger in the handle. “Like what kind?”
“Don’t use that tone with me.”
My face actually feels stiff when I smile. Other than my manic laughing the first day we woke up here, it’s probably the first time my face has moved in the upward direction.
“Those there are the laziest muscles on your body,” Isaac announces when he sees it. He slides into his chair. “I think I’ve seen you smile one other time. Ever.”
It feels awkward to even have it on my face, so I let it drop to sip the coffee.
“That’s not true.” But I know it is.
“Okay, the rules,” he says. “We take a shot every half hour.”
“A shot of liquor?”
He nods.
“NO!” I protest. “We’ll never be able to do this if we are drunk!”
“It levels the playing field,” he says. “Don’t think I don’t know about your puzzle love.”
“What are you talking about?” I drag a piece of my puzzle around the table with my fingertip. I make figure eights with it—big ones then small ones. How could he possibly know something like that? I try to remember if I had puzzles in my house when…
“I read your book,” he says.
I flush. Oh yeah . “That was just a character...”
“No,” he says, watching the path my puzzle piece is making. “That was you.”
I glance at him from beneath my lashes. I don’t have the energy to argue, and I’m not sure I can make a compelling argument anyway. Guilty, I think. Of telling too much truth. I think about the last time we took shots and my stomach rolls. If I get a hangover I’ll sleep through most of the following day and be too sick to eat. That saves food and kills at least twelve boring hours. “I’m in,” I say. “Let’s do this.”
I pick up the piece underneath my fingertip. I can make out colorful pant legs and a tiny bulldog on a red leash. I set it back down, pick up another, roll it between my fingertips. I’m bothered by what he said, but I also just found Waldo. I set him underneath my coffee mug for safekeeping.
“I’m an artist, Senna. I know what it is to put yourself into what you create.”
“What are you talking about?” I fake confusion.
Isaac already has a small corner put together. I watch his hand travel over the pieces until he plucks up another. He’s getting a good head start on me. He has at least twenty pieces. I’ll wait.
“Stop it,” he says. “We’re being fun and open tonight.”
I sigh. “It’s not fun to be open.” And then, “I was more honest in that book than I was in any of the others.”
Isaac hooks another piece onto his growing continent. “I know.”
I let spit pool in my mouth until I have enough of it to hang a really good lugie, then swallow it all at once. He’d read my books. I should have known. He’s at thirty pieces now. I tap my fingers on the table.
“I don’t know that side of you,” I say. “The artist.” I collect more spit. Swirl it, push it between my teeth. Swallow.
He smirks. “Doctor Asterholder. That’s who you know.”
This conversation is pricking where it hurts. I am remembering things; the night he took off his shirt and showed me what was painted
“Seriously?” he asks. “You want to play a game?”
“Seriously. And it’s a puzzle, not a game.”
He leans back and stretches his arms over his head while he considers this. “We stop at the same time for bathroom breaks,” he says firmly. “And I get the deer.”
I extend my hand and we shake on it.
Ten minutes later we are sitting across from each other at the table. It is so large in circumference that there is plenty of room for both of us to spread out with our respective thousand pieces. Isaac sets two mugs of coffee between us before we start.
“We need some rules,” he announces. I slide my mug over and hook a finger in the handle. “Like what kind?”
“Don’t use that tone with me.”
My face actually feels stiff when I smile. Other than my manic laughing the first day we woke up here, it’s probably the first time my face has moved in the upward direction.
“Those there are the laziest muscles on your body,” Isaac announces when he sees it. He slides into his chair. “I think I’ve seen you smile one other time. Ever.”
It feels awkward to even have it on my face, so I let it drop to sip the coffee.
“That’s not true.” But I know it is.
“Okay, the rules,” he says. “We take a shot every half hour.”
“A shot of liquor?”
He nods.
“NO!” I protest. “We’ll never be able to do this if we are drunk!”
“It levels the playing field,” he says. “Don’t think I don’t know about your puzzle love.”
“What are you talking about?” I drag a piece of my puzzle around the table with my fingertip. I make figure eights with it—big ones then small ones. How could he possibly know something like that? I try to remember if I had puzzles in my house when…
“I read your book,” he says.
I flush. Oh yeah . “That was just a character...”
“No,” he says, watching the path my puzzle piece is making. “That was you.”
I glance at him from beneath my lashes. I don’t have the energy to argue, and I’m not sure I can make a compelling argument anyway. Guilty, I think. Of telling too much truth. I think about the last time we took shots and my stomach rolls. If I get a hangover I’ll sleep through most of the following day and be too sick to eat. That saves food and kills at least twelve boring hours. “I’m in,” I say. “Let’s do this.”
I pick up the piece underneath my fingertip. I can make out colorful pant legs and a tiny bulldog on a red leash. I set it back down, pick up another, roll it between my fingertips. I’m bothered by what he said, but I also just found Waldo. I set him underneath my coffee mug for safekeeping.
“I’m an artist, Senna. I know what it is to put yourself into what you create.”
“What are you talking about?” I fake confusion.
Isaac already has a small corner put together. I watch his hand travel over the pieces until he plucks up another. He’s getting a good head start on me. He has at least twenty pieces. I’ll wait.
“Stop it,” he says. “We’re being fun and open tonight.”
I sigh. “It’s not fun to be open.” And then, “I was more honest in that book than I was in any of the others.”
Isaac hooks another piece onto his growing continent. “I know.”
I let spit pool in my mouth until I have enough of it to hang a really good lugie, then swallow it all at once. He’d read my books. I should have known. He’s at thirty pieces now. I tap my fingers on the table.
“I don’t know that side of you,” I say. “The artist.” I collect more spit. Swirl it, push it between my teeth. Swallow.
He smirks. “Doctor Asterholder. That’s who you know.”
This conversation is pricking where it hurts. I am remembering things; the night he took off his shirt and showed me what was painted
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