for w.cat
Michelangelo's Shoulder
It dawned hot in Georgia. Don rubbed his head and blinked. He got out of bed and paused before a makeshift easel where a drawing, taped to a board, showed a woman sitting on a park bench. She was large, dressed in layers of multi-colored cotton. She reminded him of the Renoir woman in her plush living room, the dog sprawled at her feet, but she was smarter. The line across her eyebrows and tapering along her jaw was right. He'd left out a lot, but that didn't matter. If what was there was true enough, you knew the rest—like a Michelangelo shoulder emerging from stone.
He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face.
After coffee and a piece of toast, he rolled the drawing and took it to the park where the woman fed pigeons every day. She wasn't there. She wasn't there the next day, either. The following day Don brought a loaf of bread, sat on her bench, and tossed white pellets into the air. Birds fought for each piece. He prepared the remaining bread and scattered it in one throw. "There you go—something for everybody. She'll be back soon."
A week later, she showed up. Don moved aside and asked, "Where you been?"
"Took sick."
"I've been feeding the pigeons."
"I was worrying. Thank you."
"I did a drawing of you. I wanted to name it, but—I didn't know your name."