All that we don't say

In a room as cold as death, stood two uneven souls, staring at the vessel who’d been empty since dusk. The woman, holding a brush; the man, harboring a scalpel—and feelings he didn’t quite know how to communicate.

“Marisol,” he said to his clipboard, or the corpse, or to anything in the room that wasn’t her soft, hazel eyes. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“Shouldn’t be that surprising. Jackie covers for me at Grovewood when I’m on vacation, and I cover for her here. She didn’t tell you about Tahoe?”

Of course, he knew about his sister’s girls’ trip, and of course, he knew about the angel who’d be painting faces by his side. But he had practiced flirting in front of the mirror for six weeks, and he was quite proud of his opening line—quietly hopeful that she received his message.

It was everything that came afterward that got tricky.

“She did," he said. "I must have forgotten.”

“I understand,” Marisol turned the head of her deceased canvas to one side. “I have a forgettable face. Unlike this beauty.” She held up a photograph from the 1950s of a sepia-toned woman with luxurious locks and a wide smile.

“I remember your face,” he blurted, “I remember your face all the time.”

“That’s nice, Frank. Are you almost done with the embalming?”

He had finished three hours before she arrived, but as long as there were tubes sticking out of random places, he had a legitimate reason to stay. “Almost,” he said, feigning annoyance with the device.

“So…” he broke the silence. “What made you decide to become a ‘morgue Monet? A ’petrified Picasso?’ A ‘Leonardo dead-Vinci?’”

“Can you stop? I take my job very seriously.” Marisol prodded at the woman, attempting to get her cheekbones to match yesteryear’s likeness.

“I think you’re an artist,” Frank offered sweetly. “You bring photographs to life.”

“It’s more than that. A picture’s worth a thousand words,” the artist said, “but a memory…people will change their whole lives for a memory…or at least to get back to the way it made them feel. And that’s what I’m really doing here. Making people feel something.”

You make me feel something, Frank wanted to shout. But, “Oh?” was all he managed.

“We all curate our image. Not just assholes on Instagram. Did you know Augustus commissioned busts of himself as a twenty-year-old when he was well into his sixties? We are our memories, and the memories most people have of us are only what we allow them to see. As if silently screaming to the world: ‘This is who I hope you think I am.’”

“Who do you think I am?” Frank asked.

“The guy who likes all my stories but never DMs me. The guy who thinks I can’t tell those tubes are empty. The guy who’d be kind of cute if he grew his beard out and trimmed his hair.”

Her smile was burned into his memory.

And their silent messages were received.