Aesthete & Amateur 6, part 1: Accident versus Intention
Fictitious on-going series (continued from Issue#5) of gallery reviews by professional art critic, Eleanor Medier, and her less-than-professional (and proud of it) husband, Heavy Writer.*
The Aesthete & the Amateur, Issue #6, Part 1:
Accident versus Intention by Heavy Writer
When Ele found that I sold her beloved Albers painting, she also discovered I had replaced it with a forgery I made. Because I hadn’t any black paint, I used burned motor oil instead. Surprisingly, she didn’t scream or curse hysterically. She didn’t brake all the kitchen plates over my head. True, her face turned red, her eyes launched lightning bolts, and her lips became thin like a dagger blade. Other than that, she kept calm.
I was glad getting away that easy for the moment, but I knew that she can be like a ticking bomb. There was no room for errors here, so I walked on my toes around her, and I watched my back. Overnight, she kept complaining about that motor oil smell, invading the entire house, and giving her a headache. That darn oil betrayed me and now the stupid smell could not let her forget my deed. So I decided to take her away from the crime scene.
Early the next morning, I called a cleaning company, and rented a fancy trailer home. While the cleaning personelle arrived to fix our smelly problem, Ele and I embarked in my Humvee for an weekend fishing adventure. The weather was on our side, and we arrived at the little island right before sunset. Connected to the continent through an old wood bridge, it is away from the city’s noise and pollution—a little paradise where I dock my rusted old fishing boat.
We did a little fishing, and, of course, I had to bait her hook. She would’t touch worms, even if her life depended on it. After two hours of peace, but little productive catch, we watched some swans swim by.
Me: “Darling, have a glass of wine. No point to try catch anything with these darn birds around.”
Eleanor: “Look how cute they are!”
Me: “They might be cute, but they scare the fish. Let’s have dinner before it gets dark.”
We popped the cork of a french wine bottle, cuddled by the camp fire, and watched the sunset. What could be better? Barbecue, drink, a camp, and a blond. Does a man need more? Somehow, I got a little dizzy after just two glasses of wine. But I didn’t pay much attention. What dragged my attention instead were her feet.
Me: “You came into the wild wearing high heels?”
Eleanor: “I always wear heels, dear.”
Me: “No you are not!” I cried while taking off her shoes and throwing them into the deep water of Lake Michigan.
Eleanor: “Heavy are you crazy?! Those shoes cost a fortune!”
Me: “Were they more expensive than your ankles? I would hate to ruin this trip because you fall on this rough terrain! Here wear these.” I threw her an old pair of sneakers from my Humvee trunk. She gave me mean looks, but after another glass of wine, she forgot about it.
The next day, I woke up with a bad headache—the type you have after a night of partying. But I didn’t drink more than Ele, and she had a big smile. After breakfast, and a mug of coffee, I felt much better.
Me: “Are you ready to take out the boat and go find a big catch?”
Eleanor: “That smelly rusty old thing? No thanks, dear. I’ll guard the camp and get a tan.”
Me: “Ok, but you’ll miss the best part of the trip. I’ll see you at lunch time.”
I gave her a quick kiss, grab my rods, and rushed to the dock. After a few bad coughs, the boat engine started. I sailed a few miles out, anchored the old metal can, and launched my baited hooks, full of hope. Soon, I had enough decent captures to provide a tasty lunch.
Happy with my performance, I lit a cig, opened a beer, and with a smile, was thinking life was worth living. Then, suddenly, the boat shook. First I thought I hooked a big beast, and I rushed to check the rods. Nothing. Seconds later, the darn rusted can rolled dangerously to the left side.
When I checked under deck, the engine compartment was totally flooded. I don’t know how the Titanic captain felt when he realized all is lost, but I’m sure he couldn’t have felt worst than I did. So I cursed and turned around, heading for the deck before the rusted wreck could sink and and trap me.
On the way up, I noticed the oil foot print of a high heel shoe on the stairs. That moment explained my morning headache and the bad coughs of the engine before starting. But too late! My beloved wife has paid me back for selling her painting!
I sat on the boat until the last second. The old girl did sink like the Titanic, and left me in the cold freezing waters. I cursed my luck again, and started to swim. Finally made it to shore.
Eleanor asked with sarcastic sweetness: “Did you make a big catch dear?”
Me: “Are you trying to kill me woman?!” I cried, shaking, frozen to the bone.
Eleanor: “If I wanted to kill you, I would not fail. But if you’ll sell one of my paintings again, I’ll feed you to the sharks.”
Me: “So I guess a civilized divorce is not in your book?”
Eleanor, smugly victorious: “It is till death do us part, dear.”
Me: “If that is what you want, you better get me a towel and a bourbon, or else I might strangle you on the spot. Make sure you don’t put any sleeping pills in my drink this time, please.”
She ran off giggling to fulfill my wishes. As I shivered, I couldn’t stop from smiling, watching her rush on that rough terrain while wearing another pair of high heels.
The rest of the weekend was like a honeymoon, and when we arrived home, that annoying oil smell was gone. That set the mood well, so the next day, we went to look for new artists to review.
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The couple runs off to discuss the works of:
* Continuing saga from Sim Street Journal #5.
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