The painting was on a large canvas; five feet by three. Nearly three quarters of it was taken up by a large red and green mass; not a circle, or even an oval, but a flowing, bubble like shape, filled with swirls of orange and purple, slashes of white and yellow, and little squiggly lines of grey. If you looked closely, you could barely make out small mathematic symbols hidden here and there in an almost transparent blue.
Above the mass of swirling colors was a cube like shape, with rounded sides and right angles. It covered the rest of the canvas, and was a collage of nearly every imaginable color there was. They were painted in such a way that the colors both stoop apart, yet blended perfectly, making what could be best explained as a "pool" of color.
"It's our family." Lisa had explained.
Jeremiah stared at it a moment longer. He was seated in small metal chair in front of the large piece of canvas that leaned against the wall. His head was tilted slightly to one side and he looked from one end of the painting to the other slowly. "I don't get it." He said finally.
Lisa smiled. She was standing behind him, leaning over him, her face close to his, the smooth soft skin of her chin and cheek nestled in the bend of his neck and shoulder, her soft hair brushing the side of his face, the scent of lavender and cinnamon filling his nose as he inhaled.
She gestured to the painting, making a large circular motion with her left had. "That's you." She said, indicating the large bubbly mass.
"Wow." Jeremiah replied. "I look terrible." He joked.
She bit him playfully on the neck. He laughed.
"Why am I so misshapen?" he asked.
"Because you are a complex man." She answered.
"Am not."
"Really? So you're not a mixture of Irish and Scottish heritage? You're not witty and smart, and romantic, and passionate, and adventurous yet reserved; thoughtful and caring, yet absentminded and forgetful, determined, quiet, laidback, and wonderful husband?"
Jeremiah stared at the painting. "You're having an affair, aren't you?" he joked.
And again, she bit him; this time a little harder.
Jeremiah laughed. "What's with all the math symbols?" he asked.
"Because, my love, sometimes, that's all you think about!"
"That's not all I think about…" he replied, reaching back and rubbing her swollen womb.
"And I'm sure you could tell me the exact number of times we have made love too."
"Four hundred and seventy six…" he smiled. "But that's not counting the time your dad caught us in his garage. We didn't finish."
She planted a small kiss on his neck in the same spot she had previously bit him. "You mean 'you' didn't finish." She whispered.
Jeremiah blushed slightly.
"So I guess that's you." He gestured towards the rounded cube.
Lisa nodded against his neck. "Um-humm."
"There's a lot going on there."
"Ummmm-hummmmmm!" she nodded again.
"Let me guess; you're a square because you think you're simple."
"I am art. Art is me." She replied.
"And the sides are rounded because you're… getting fat."
Another bite. A hard one.
"Ow. Joking!" He rubbed her belly again. "What's with all the different colors?"
"That's the baby."
"The baby is a swirl of colors?"
"No, the colors represent the universe; everything blended together it one perfect moment, thus creating life."
And again, Jeremiah tilted his head to one side and looked at the paint with a new perspective.
"I love it." He said finally. "We should hang it in the nursery, right over the crib. It might give him nightmares, but…"
Another bite, and a kiss.
"But why am I such a large… blob?" Jeremiah asked. "I take up almost all the canvas. Are you trying to give me a hint?"
Lisa moved to the front of the chair and sat sideways on his lap, her arms snaking around his neck and shoulders, her fingers running through his hair. She looked deeply into his soft green eyes and studied the lines and curves of his face.
"Because you are my world." She answered softly. "You are the foundation of this family. With out you… there would be now 'us'"?
And Jeremiah looked at her. Her cheek had a smear of green paint across it, her hair was matted with sweat, and she was wearing the same yellow smock she had been in for a week. But at that moment, as he was concerned; she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
He pulled her close, and kissed her deeply, and hoped the moment would last forever.
Jeremiah wiped the tears from his eyes.
The painting was hanging of the wall in front of him, twin overhead lights shining down on it. It was bordered by an elegant hand carved cherry-wood frame; deep roses, olive branches, grape vines, and hummingbirds. The frame was subtly enough that it didn't distract the eye from the art, but one could appreciate it nonetheless. At the bottom, in the center of the frame, on a small brass placard, were etched the words "Family Portrait".
Jeremiah had lost track of how long he had been sitting there, looking at it, the memories attached to it taking him back to happier times.
Behind him, on the other side of a two way mirror, Lois Lane-Kent was trashing wildly in a metal chair, but to no avail. The straps would hold her in place, of that, Jeremiah was certain. Nothing less than a very sharp blade would free her. Either that or breaking her wrist. Jeremiah was sure she didn't have a sharp blade, and was fairly certain she wasn't about to break her own wrist to be free.
In front of the mirror was a large oak desk, its surface covered with computer equipment; which included four monitors of various size, different information and screens displayed on each, three keyboards, a large Laptop, the screen saver, a thin line ricocheting of the sides displayed, and large electronic components of various use. There were also blueprints, dozens of sheets of paper scattered everywhere; complex mathematical equations scribbled on each, and a copy of the tram schedule for the Lex-Corp Hydro-Nuclear Power Plant Ferries and Trams.
Then there were the photographs.
Dozen of black and white photos of a man with messy black hair and thick black glasses; a woman with long black hair, usually holding a recording device at one press conference or another; and finally, photos of someone flying through the air from various distances, a triangulated "S" just visible in a few of the shots.
On the wall to the left, there was a bank of CPUs, six in all, the lights on all of them blinking and flashing rapidly.
Jeremiah had spent many nights in this room, many of which had been spent in front of the painting; his thoughts silently lost in its colors and tones; remembering the scent of her hair, the sensation of her lips and teeth on his neck, her fingers through his hair, the warmth of her skin, the firmness of her round belly, the weight of her in his lap, her mouth on his.
Hours had dissolved away in the nights past as he stood and stared at this, his "Family Portrait". And perhaps, he would have been content to stare at it a little longer, had not the lights suddenly gone out.