Marion bought some sketch pads and pencils and charcoal. She also bought a sharpener and a spray can of fixit. She wanted to buy some pastel chalks, but for some reason what they had didnt appeal to her so she let it go for now. She could always get them later. Maybe in a few days she would get down town and roam around the large art supply stores and smell and touch the canvas, the stretcher strips, easels and brushes and just sort of browse. She had no intention of buying any oils until she had a studio, but she did want to do some watercolors. Thats where her head was really at right now. She could feel that light, delicacy within her that she knew she could transform into beautiful and fragile watercolors. Yes, that was what she liked most about watercolors, their fragility. She couldnt wait. She had this incredible urge to paint a single rose standing in a slender vase of translucent blue, Venetian glass, or perhaps lying on a piece of velvet. Yes, that would be lovely too. With just a hint of shadow. So delicate and fragile that you can smell its fragrance. Well we/ll see. Perhaps in a few days. But for now some sketching to help to reanimate the eye and hand. She felt an almost uncontrollable urge to draw everything she saw as she walked the street, everything had such a vibrance, such a life. She quickly noticed the shapes of noses, eyes, ears; the planes of faces, the cheek bones, chins; the curve of necks; and hands. She loved hands. You can tell so much from hands and the way the fingers are shaped and primarily the way people hold and treat their hands. She was quite young, a child, the first time she saw a picture of Michelangelos Creation and when she saw the detail of God giving life to Adam the image was immediately and irrevocably implanted in her mind. The more she studied painting in the later years the more impressed she was with the simple conception behind that image and the incredible story in the attitude of the two hands. It was an attitude that she tried to incorporate in her work and every now and then she felt she had succeeded, at least to some degree. She wanted to simply, and directly, tell the viewer something about the painting with the attitude of the object whether human or otherwise, to transpose her inner feelings to the surface of the canvas… to express her attitude through her art, to have her sensitivity seen and felt.
The following days were pretty much the same for Marion, Harry and Ty. Harry and Ty got wired at night and worked their asses off, slowing down as much as possible when the other guys got on their cases, and then taking a few sleeping pills and sleeping through the day. Just once being a habit with Harry he was accustomed to the routine by the second night so when he got home in the morning he made love to Marion for a couple of hours before taking a couple of her sleeping pills and crapping out. Now I know why you lose weight on these things, you ball the weight off. You know, its just the opposite for some men. Yeah? Thats right. It makes them completely impotent and in some cases indifferent. Tougha lucka joe. That aint my problem. Comere, and Harry pulled her down on the bed and Marion giggled as he kissed her on the neck. What are you doing? Harry snapped his head back and looked at her, If you dont know I cant be doin it right. They laughed and Harry kissed her on the neck, the shoulder and the breast and moistened his lips and kissed her stomach, I want to see if I can wear it out. Which one? How many ya got? and they both laughed and giggled and passed a loving morning until it was time to sleep the day away.
At night, while Harry was at work, Marion sat on the couch with her sketch pad and pencils and charcoal. She crossed her legs under her and hugged herself and closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift into the future where she and Harry were together, always, and the coffee house was always full and a feature article had been written about it in the NEW YORKER and it became an in place and all the art critics came to sit and drink coffee and eat pastry and look at the paintings by the great artists of tomorrow that had been discovered by Marion; and artists and poets and musicians and writers sat around talking and discussing and from time to time Marion would display her paintings and all the other painters loved them and even the critics loved her work and praised its sensitivity and awareness, and when she was not at the coffee house she could see herself in her studio painting, the light from the paintings dazzling the eye, and then she would pick up her sketch pad and look around for something to sketch and nothing seemed to be exactly what she wanted to do and so she tried to set up a still life with objects from the kitchen or living room, but nothing seemed to excite or inspire her so she went back to her fantasies and enoyed the comfort and reassurance they gave her and they were more real than sitting on the couch looking at the pencils, the charcoal and the virgin sketch pad.
Each day Sara checked the mailbox very carefully, but still no reply from the McDick Corp. But she stuck to the diet anyway, but it was becoming harder and harder even with eating a whole cup of lettuce. She spent the day with Ada and the ladies getting the sun and still they came and asked and she showed them her red hair but still nothing new happened. When the sun went behind the building some of the ladies went in the house, especially those with the reflectors, but Sara and a few others stayed outside enjoying the cool shade. Even then it was not easy to forget about the food and just enjoy the special attention she got as a soon to be contestant on a quiz show, her mind drifting to images of lox and bagels and delicious cheese danish that were so sharp she could smell them and actually taste them and the ladies voices drifted by as she smiled and licked her lips. But the nights were worse as she sat, alone, in her viewing chair, watching the television, with her back to the refrigerator hearing him murmuring to her, spasms of fear knotting her stomach and a heaviness squeezing her chest. It was bad enough him bugging her, but then the herring started too. A couple of yentas already. Never stop. All the time talk, talk. Her ears started to feel like they were under water. I feel good, so why dont you go haunt Maurrie the butcher. Bite his thumbs off. Youll do everybody a favor. — in sour cream with onions and spice, hmmmmmm — I dont hear you—with a hot bialy… or onion roll — I like Kaiser, thank you, and anyway Im not hungry— and that growling in your stomach keeps me awake — growling, schmowling, thats just my stomach thinking thin—and the lox is red like your hair with the cream cheese and bagel — who needs it? One more day and I/ll have a meat patty for lunch and you can drop dead, thank you very much, and Sara drank another glass of water—zophtic, zophtic — and put the glass in the sink and tossed her red head at the refrigerator, shook her tuchis in his face, and went to bed. She was getting up a couple of times a night now and was almost tempted to stop, or maybe cut down, on the water, but she kept thinking of all the pounds that were going down the drain and she continued to drink, drink, drink, water all day long, not too disturbed by the nocturnal visits to the bathroom. But now she was dreaming. Sometimes a couple of dreams in one night. Like seeing chickens flying through her room, but they were neatly plucked and roasted to a golden brown with little balls of kasha on their backs. And then that roast beef. It kept rolling down the hill threatening to crush her but somehow it just whirled by, just missing her by a few inches, dragging behind it a gravy boat filled with rich brown gravy, and bowls of mashed potatoes and chocolate covered cherries with cherry juice filling. A couple nights of dreaming and Sara decided enough already. She got the name of the doctor from her lady friend and made an appointment. I dont know from diet pills, but eggs and grapefruit I/ve had up to here thank you.