Two Punks In Love

Shelter

Kat Three Weeks Later

"Show me," Street's attractive del Marco smile looms large across the face of my phone.

I stare at the abstract watercolor on my easel. It's vaguely botanical with impressions in blues and greens that both top and trail the tilted oval shape dominating the canvas. The negative space inside the blue-green oval attracts the eye. Two sweet, creamy smudges—fat as puppies— that curl around each other, slumbering among the flowers that adorn them.

"Show me," Street repeats, more emphatic this time.

I squeeze my eyes shut and rotate my phone.

"Kat, all I can see is the wall..."

I peak with one eye and adjust my phone camera.

"Okay, okay...oooh...kaay...woah..." Street's voice is urgent at first to let me know I've got the shot, then lapses into contemplation as examines my painting.

I'm dying by degrees while he's silent.

"Are there more?" is all he says.

I pan the the five canvases lining the wall—all variations on the same theme, giving each its due. Street says nothing as he takes them all in. All in the same colors, all with different variations on the negative, interior space.

"It's not the first series I've ever seen like this," he says. I feel a sudden crush of disappointment, but then he says, "But I've never seen anyone else's uterus that was so brave. Pulsing pink is what everyone's expectation in a pregnancy self-portrait. But you've captured the bittersweet. Blue struggle. Green hope. It speaks, Kat. It..." Street clears his throat. "it hurts a little, but I'm not worried for you. There is a definite optimistic bent. The green lightens more than the blue concerns."

I keep the camera focused on the painting so he can't see the reddening of my cheeks. Street is an educated artist. It's not that I didn't expect him to see the truth in my abstraction. I guess I simply didn't expect that he would be so direct in his critique. At the same time, it feels amazing, to know that a talented painter saw to the heart of my work, felt what I was attempting to release.

"Don't worry for me. I feel much better. =I am loving the simple life..." I don't add that I am loving Trace more and more every day, because Street and I don't get that gooey. "But I'm finding I still have good days and bad days when it comes to my feelings. My painting helps so much. It turns the blue days to purpose, because even in them, I can find the greener hope."

"Hey," he says. I catch his meaning, and turn the phone to meet his gaze. "Have you shown Trace?"

I shake my head, blushing harder. "I don't want him to worry."

There is no one more attune to my pregnancy than Trace. Especially in the last few weeks. I'm sure he will see these paintings as abstract representations of my uterus and our babies. What if all he sees is the blue?

It has always bothered Trace, when I live in the blue.

"Kat...he's an artist, too. If anyone can understand the catharsis of a work—the pure joy in capturing and releasing something painful—it's a musician. Show him," Street encourages.

"I'll think about it," I promise.

###

Trace, Half an hour later

"Get off me, woman!" I laugh, holding my triple meat deli sandwich above my head, out of Kat's reach.

"Just a bite," she pleads as she pushes me against the counter, straining on tip-toes.