The Girl in the Painting

Ten seconds of the faucet running equals four cups of water, which equals two scoops of coffee.

The can of Folger’s is one-hand’s width away from the coffeepot.

At least, it should be Folger’s. Fuck if I know what the label actually says. I am the epitome of a blind taste tester.

I follow the specific directions I’ve memorized and set the coffeemaker to brew by tapping the third button on the right.

The sound of Bram’s footsteps gets louder as he approaches, changing subtly as he transitions from the wood of the front hall to the tiles of the kitchen. “Looks like you’re off to a good start this morning.”

If I had eyes that worked, I’d sure as shit be rolling them at him.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my brother Bram.

Hell, everyone loves Bram. He’s the fun-loving rock star with a killer voice and enough charming swagger to sell out stadiums.

It’s the whole being blind thing I despise.

“I told you you’d get this down.”

Being blind and his holier-than-thou chipper attitude, that is.

“Oh yeah, what used to take two minutes now only takes thirty,” I grumble. “At this rate, I think a decade or so from now, I might be able to make a fucking cup of coffee in under fifteen minutes.”

My brother chuckles. Good God, he must be on uppers.

The rustling of paper ends what could have been one hell of a bitter inner diatribe.

“Did you get groceries?”

“Just a few things I figured you needed.”

Shit like this—other people helping me—is exactly what makes me feel pathetic.

While I’ve learned how to do basic things for myself over the past twelve months, I still have to rely on people like Bram to get my fucking groceries. Every Tuesday, I give him a list, and he fulfills it. A list of things I deem necessary. What I don’t need are his overachieving assumptions about what I need.

No way in hell my brother with his perfect life and perfect sight really knows what I need.

“Eggs sound good?” he asks, and the urge to swipe my hand across the kitchen counter and hear everything crash to the ground is strong.

“I don’t want any fucking eggs, Bram.”

“Okay,” he responds, an emotional flatline. My mood has officially soured the sweetness out of his. “What about toast? Oatmeal?”

He’s unwaveringly patient with me, and it only fuels my frustration.

“Bram,” I say through clenched teeth, slamming my fists down onto the counter. “I can handle it. I might be fucking blind, but I’m not an invalid. There is shit I can do for myself.”

“Fine,” he mutters. “Eat breakfast. Don’t eat breakfast. Burn the whole fucking place down for all I care.”

His unexpected words spur a laugh from my throat. In the entirety of my suffering, I don’t think my sullen attitude has ever broken him. Unfortunately for Bram and everyone else in my life, the only satisfaction I get these days tends to stem from sarcastic verbal judo. His breakthrough serves solely as an opening for the start of this match. “If you keep acting like a mother hen, I might consider it.”

“Get over yourself, you cranky fuck,” he says through a soft, mostly annoyed chuckle. “I’m just trying to help you out.”

Help. Fuck, I hate that word.

“That’s the thing, Bram.” I spit out my frustration. “I don’t need your goddamn help.”

It’s a lie, we both know it, but that does nothing to soften the conviction with which I wish it weren’t.

He sighs but, smartly, keeps his mouth shut. We’ve had our fair share of heated spats over the past year, and experience tells him there’s only enough room for one antagonist in this kitchen. As the owner in residence, I call dibs.

“So, all issues with breakfast aside, are you planning on going into your studio this week?”

What’s the point? It’s not like I’m going to paint…

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Why?”

“Lucy’s been fielding quite a few calls from interested buyers, and I’m sure she’d love to discuss them with you.”

She’d love to discuss them with me? Pretty sure he means my assistant would love to stop answering so many goddamn calls. Honestly, I’m surprised she’s even answering the phones without me there. Lucy Miller is about as prone to doing her job as my eyes are to see my fucking feet.

Before the accident, I was in the studio every day. Now, it’s all I can do to force myself to go once a month. Clearly, going weeks on end without checking in on her has only impugned what little work ethic she had.

Ironically, ever since the world found out I would never paint again, the value of my paintings has shot up exponentially. Morbid fascination at its finest.

Last month, one of my paintings sold at auction for two million dollars.

Created when I was twenty-one, it was one of the first paintings I ever leaned into with my entire soul. Full of movement and passion, the young boy and his bubbles embodied everything I felt at the time. I sold it to what I’d believed to be an impassioned buyer. Turns out, the only impassioned fool was me.