It’s about 5 p.m. when the party finally breaks up, and all the Moon family friends start heading home, like small clusters of dandelion seeds shaking themselves loose and drifting away in the chilly breeze.

It’s amazing how the noise fades out. Like dimming the lights - the roar of voices subsides into a subtle bubble, chuckle, that reminds me of a laughing stream running over the rocks on the riverbed, or the low tide licking the shore. They pour out through the front door, each one with a word for Kattar or Mrs. Moon, and a promise to come around to see them again soon - a preemptive excuse about their busy schedules tagged onto the end, for when they're inevitably unable to follow through.

It’s starting to snow again and Mrs. Moon has to drive one of her friends, the cherry-headed lady, to the subway station. I try not to think of how cold the walk home is going to be but don’t succeed.

“I’ll be back in about half an hour to clean up,” Mrs. Moon tells Kattar, who shrugs from his wheelchair like it’s ‘no big deal,’ but I know he couldn’t stand sleeping in this mess.

“There’s heavy traffic down on Main Street so I’m going to try and go round by the east route,” she adds casually, rummaging through her purse like she’s searching for her keys.

That’s my part of town.

She glances at me quickly, asking with her eyes if I’d like a ride home.

Not yet.

“I’ll stay to help you clean up when you get back,” I reply quickly, a little too loudly, in response to the unvoiced question.

She turns to Madame the Ginger without another word and begins fretting about the weather, just like that, with an airy effortlessness that I’ve never been able to master. In ten seconds they're out in the hallway, swinging the door shut, talking Christmas ornaments and wreaths - decorating doors with wrapping paper. Ugly sweaters. Coffee mugs shaped like snowmen. The last I hear of their conversation is Mrs. Moon's sparkling laughter as the door mutes their chatter into soft indistinct mumblings, fading away with the footsteps.

The click of high heels grows fainter and further, leaving the room to settle into almost peaceful silence. I settle into my familiar disquiet. 

Part of me, a small part, wishes I could run after Mrs. Moon and beg her to come back, just so I don’t have to face the mess I made sitting in his wheelchair before me - but I’m too old to be crying out for anyone to come and save me, like some sort of princess in a tower. A damsel in distress…

I force myself to look at Kattar, trying to think how to bring up the peonies again. I could just say it, but that would be too natural, which appears to be impossible at this point.

Kattar glows a little rosier than he did earlier. I notice his eyes shining with a bright, excited, light that makes me nervous, and that same over-attentive expression from that day at the hospital. Just the reminder brings the color to my face.

‘Please no,’ I think, like I begged the chickadee. 

I just want this to go down without awkwardness, or any sudden attacks on my heart rate, like the last time.

Just say something.

I brought you the picture - like I promised. The peonies. And the one…the other one.

I think a thousand things, but my nerves hang in the silence, dancing anxiously at every tremor of breath stirring the air in the still room and the afterglow of a thousand different colognes and perfumes. 

It’s painfully familiar, like the scent of the award ceremony, wafting down the stairs, with the snow sifting outside. And just the two of us.

The worst part is how he doesn’t even seem to mind. 

His eyes are laughing at me, I think.

And he knows.

He has to, right?

But at least he has the decency to spare me the trouble of speaking first.

“Are those the peonies?”  He smiles, motioning to the gift bag on the end table.

“Oh, yeah.”

I drag the painting from its little den and hand it to him quickly, leaving the black bag behind in a bed of pink tissue. 

I watch his face, as he takes the painting as gently as if it’s a snowflake, giving my own face a chance to cool down. 

My heart pounds like I’ve been running a marathon.

And a long silence.

He doesn’t even question why I didn’t give it to him at the party, and I’m grateful - relieved - as his dark eyes caress the posies, all blushing and bashful in their pink, airy jackets, his pretty face flush with admiration. 

“It’s so pretty, Lise…” There’s something in his expression that’s more serious than I’m used to, and that’s almost more nerve-wracking than the staring and studying.

“You’re going to make such a sensation when the world finally finds out about you.” He smiles at me when he says this, but not playfully - not like he’s joking. My gaze magnetizes itself to the floor.

I think about mentioning the application but then I think better of it. It would be better to wait until I know whether I succeeded or not.

The air seems to change in the room, growing thick.

He’s staring at me again. 

I feel the heat rise into my skin and my pulse quicken as his eyes seem to pick out every little detail in my posture, my expression. I smile out of sheer embarrassment and cover my face to hide the redness.

“What?” I force a laugh. “Do I have food on my face or something?” 

For the first time - maybe the second time - in our whole lives, I see him hesitate, almost shy. 

There’s a moment’s silence before he says, with a half-awkward half-smile:

“I was just a little surprised that you bothered to wear makeup for my party today. You barely wear makeup any other time. Was it such a big todo to be worth all that effort?”

I laugh a little, glad I could laugh at that.

“I only put on lipstick. That barely counts as effort,” I say taking a seat across from him and wiping my painted mouth on the back of my hand, “But I figured I better try a little, since, knowing your mom, half the country was going to be invited.”

His smile falls just slightly, almost imperceptibly. My heart sinks with it.

What?

What did I do this time?

He rests his head on his hand, elbow on the table, suddenly seeming burned out.

“What’s still in there?” He asks, motioning to the gift bag on the end table, without raising his head.

I hadn’t even realized he could see the black bag from here, but all in an instant I regret bringing it in the first place.

I start to say ‘nothing’ - forget about it - doesn’t matter. But the words stick.

He waves his hand like a young Rajah.

“Would you bring it here? The wheelchair doesn’t do well on carpet.”

Stung, I walk mechanically and grab the bag from its place by the door, feeling like a child sent to fetch their own switch. It takes everything in me to hand it to him gently, rather than throwing it down. The paint burns my hands through the plastic. 

I don’t even try to still my trembling as he unties the ancient knot, and stares at the work in heavy silence.

“You still don’t want this?” he asks finally, his voice so quiet it’s unsettling.

“No.” I lie and watch his posture turn rigid.

“Yes, you do.”

He glares back at the picture like it’s anything other than paint smeared on the canvas - like he sees Etan in the light passing through the orange trees, the same way I do. 

His jaw tenses, and he shakes his head, eyes heavy.

“This is the best piece you’ve ever done.” His gaze meets mine, and I force myself not to have my little meltdown right here. “I wish you wouldn’t keep letting him ruin these things for you.”

“I wish that too.” But wishing has never changed anything.

I try to say it like a joke, but my smile twitches.

I’ve never been able to be so nonchalant, like Kattar and Mrs. Moon.

I wring my wrists and kind of shrug, fighting the thickness in my throat, “I’m trying…” 

That stupid, whiny lilt starts to rise to the surface, but I won’t cry, “Just keep it for me okay?”

The sympathy and affection in his eyes claws at my heart, as he watches the pretty facade start to shatter for the thousandth time, and I try - not to let him feel sorry for me.

I can’t help it. 

Two fat tears start running down my cheeks, and I lift my chin as if defying gravity could defy the heaviness in my chest.

For one second I see something flash in his expression - a painful burning behind the dark in his eyes, the red rising in his cheeks.

He looks back at the painting sharply. Knitting his dark brows together with uncomfortable intensity, and just as quickly as it appeared the look is gone again. 

He clears his throat, as if from a long silence, staring blankly at the tablecloth.

“Could…could you get me a glass of water.” He shrugs a little sheepishly, but still doesn’t look at me, adding apologetically, “Still getting used to this wheelchair.”

I fill the glass like a girl on fire - irate with pain, and a burning, furious frustration. 

Disappointment.

If only I was anybody other than me, I would just say something.

As I hand him the glass he smiles at me, that bright, familiar smile. And everything is the same. 

Except that it wasn’t. And maybe, it hasn’t been for a long time…

But he’s getting worse at hiding it. Letting me pretend not to know.