oOo
Edward almost couldn't remember work being this hard. As in: he was getting nothing done. He felt like a toddler with crayons, like he didn't know what he was doing. It was awful.
He sat on the blue sofa and stared out the window, the drab weather making him only more mopey. He toyed with the idea of calling his mum, or Ro, but he didn't, because he knew they were going to ask how he was feeling about tomorrow, and up to now, he'd been managing to repress the thought.
Things had been going so smoothly since their return from Berlin. He was afraid of disturbing the delicate balance he'd found. The balance that Bella was giving him.
He ran one hand through his hair, getting up, pacing for a moment, stopping, gazing out the window again. The street was deserted but for an old woman walking her dog, a Pekingese with a yellow raincoat. That, at least made him smile.
He thought about Bella, downstairs in what had been a guest room. He'd insisted on turning it into a study for her, that she needed her own space to work and keep her books at. She had her desk by the window, her grandmother's armchair next to it. The small painting of the two rabbits on the blue sofa was above it, in a pretty frame.
Maybe he should go down and ask whether she was done yet. They might go out and have dinner later on, or cook together. She was still teaching him, which he enjoyed.
He checked his phone; it was barely four. There was no way Bella would be finished, and it would be selfish to disturb her.
He turned back to his easel and sighed. There was hardly anything there, and the little bit he'd managed was bland, uninspired.
He thought of the next day again, wondering if he should bring it up. Knowing Bella, she'd notice that something was wrong, anyway.
He rubbed his face, yearning for a drink, which would make his problems recede for the moment. Or even ignite some idea, stimulate him.
But, no, he was determined to stay sober. For Bella, and for himself. Although he was scared by the thought of what that might mean to his art. Not that he'd always been drinking when he was painting. But he'd been doing it, he'd come to realise, far too much, leaning on one or three drinks like a crutch to blank out the real world – especially in the years after Irina's death. But he'd been doing it before, and that was the part that frightened him.
Her death had been an excuse to indulge himself further.
Which was why Edward was worried about the following day, and the memories it might uncover.
Tomorrow would be the sixth anniversary of Irina's death.
oOo
Thank you, my loveliest readers, for everything. Hope I'll be able to update next week, since the MacBook is still wobbly.
Hugs and kisses,
Your
harperpitt