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Show 14 "What do you paint?" "Well, recently . . . recently I've been painting . . . self-portraits, painting realistic things mostly, I guess. Myself. Myself and others. Parents. My present wife. My children. A good friend named Anne. Realism." ''How's your light?" "My light? Good." "What are you working in?" "Working? Oils. Oils and acrylics." "Are you painting dark or light?" "Well . . . More . . . more, I suppose . . , more, I suppose dark than light." "Hmmm." Hunt sat in the bathroom. Leah'd driven him home. He couldn't figure it out. "No reason," Dr. Kartch had told him. "No apparent reason." Sonofabitch, Hunt thought to himself; this is mad. He heard the pipes shaking underneath him and, it seemed, in the walls. He heard both furnaces turning on. He felt ahead of him, for the sink. He leaned forward, banging his head on it, hoping the shock would help. Still, he had no sight. "There's a bump on your forehead," Leah said. "It's all right." "Maybe your eyes have risen. And are trying to work their way out above." |
