I pinned him against the wall. Our faces so close I could feel his warm breath against my skin. I smiled. He scowled. He glared at me and hissed. “You’re an idiot if you actually think you can get away with this.”

The smell of corpses rotted around us. But it was just like roses to me.

“Aw, baby,” I brushed against his soft hair. “I just love it when you underestimate me.”

I stare longingly at one of your paintings. It was sold for five thousand dollars at last night’s charity auction. The buyer will send someone this afternoon to pick it up for them. He said it was the most brilliant use of orange and yellow they had seen used together in years. I don’t see it.

It’s titled Sunstreaked Day. I can’t see why.

I move onto your next painting.

This one is titled The Sky’s Ocean. It was sold for ten thousand to an eccentric millionaire. She’s going to frame it in her beach house. She loved the blending of the blue and white. She said you could feel the ocean’s embrace through the warmth, yet distance of the colors. I don’t see it.

I shift to the next painting.

And the next.

And the next.

I’m in your gallery. Filled with your masterpieces. Selling for five, ten, twenty, a hundred grand. The prices keep rising. The colors get more extravagant. More vivid. I don’t see it.

I stop at the hundred-grand masterpiece. You spent four weeks immersed in this painting. Here, I notice the brush strokes. The dried sweat. The self doubt. Then, the overwhelming confidence.

It’s a portrait. Of me. I was there for those four weeks. Out of the fifty-seven we’ve been dating.

A monotone piece. It’s painted exclusively in grey, black, and white. A painting for me. There’s a plat at the bottom. I’ve already ready it twenty-three times. Engraved the words on my heart.

To Kimberly, my beloved.

Who’s been with me since my pieces sold for pennies. Since she can’t see the colors I’ve painted, I wanted to create a piece just for her. I love you.

I may not see your paintings like you want me to, but what I can see the work, dedication, and time you put into them. I’m sorry I can’t see your colors. I’m sorry I can’t understand this huge part of your world. But I’ll still be at every auction for you.

I'd say Merry Christmas

And wish you good cheer

But I know some who suffer

At this time of year,

So I'll just wish you peace

And contentment of heart.

Be calm at this season of love.

It's a start x.

In my house, we have the jar. It’s become a sort of coming-of-age ceremony for my family. Only Abuela gets to decide if you’re ready for the jar. My cousin, Rico, didn’t get to see the jar’s inside until he was twenty-two. When I was fifteen, Abuela decided I was ready. And now, here I am, staring at it’s colorful red and copper outside as it rests upon the high kitchen cabinet. I sighed, grabbed a stepladder, and took it down.

The jar was cold and smooth to the touch. I ran my fingers over its zig-zagged patterns before thumbing off the clay top. I pulled out the tightly rolled up parchment paper and unrivaled its yellow silk ribbon. On the paper was a handwritten family recipe for gazpacho dating back more than six generations ago. A recipe I’ve memorized six years ago when I first saw it. I sighed, tucked it back into the jar, placed it back up on the cabinet, and left it to collect dust for another six years. I glanced at the clock. It was time to go check on Abuela.

“Hola Abuela.” I greeted as I set a plate of paella on her nightstand.

She didn’t turn to look at me or the food. Abuela kept staring at the ceiling. She stopped interacting with me a while ago, when she forgot who I was, who she was. I still remember the day the doctor diagnosed her with dementia. It’s been a long six years. The doctor doesn’t think she’s going to live much longer. There’s another house visit next week, maybe there’ll finally be some good news. “Make sure you eat it all.” I said as I closed the door behind me.

It’s quiet here. Just me and Abuela. Rico, Amy, Sofia, Luis, and all the others faded after she was diagnosed. I could see it in their eyes: they couldn’t stand seeing her like this.

Dammit.

And they think I could? Corbades! At least I had the pinche guts to stick around and take care of her.

I miss it. The nights we’d gather around the table, laughing, swapping stories. Then, all our attention would serve to Abuela as she carried gazpacho with its rich, savory scent wafting through the air.

No one’s made gazpacho since Abuela was diagnosed.

I took the jar back down. Maybe it was time for that to change.