In the bedroom she flings clothes off hangers, out of drawers. There is a blue bag. An old Navy sea bag of her father’s. The white letters; name rank and serial number, the name of his ship, fading. The white drawstring cord stiff with age. She stuffs the bag like she’s cleaning up blood. Frantic. Vincent cannot keep up with what is happening. Stands speechless at the door as her hand clutches clothing, sweeps it into the bag, shoves it to the bottom. Sweat streams down her neck, into her eyes.

     Vincent sees her obliquely in the mirror over the dresser, wonders if she is crying or if it is the heat.  Kate never good at masking her emotions. But he can not see her clearly any more. In the mirror he sees his painting of Saint Sebastian, run through with swords, with knives, blood running freely from all his wounds.

     He asks the stupid question. Knows it is stupid even as he makes his lips, mouth and vocal chords do their work.  Kate is sweeping books off her shelves next to the bed and into her rolling suitcase, the kind you always see flight attendants using. She zips it closed, stands it up on its wheels and little feet. She grabs the last item on the shelf, a teddy bear. One of those Valentine’s Day teddy bears that so often come with bouquets. Small, pink, with a bright red bow around his neck and a red plastic heart glued to the middle of his chest. In the center of the heart, script writing, I Love You. She straps him to the suitcase with a sharp snap of the black elastic cord X-ing across the outside pocket of the bag, which, according to manufacturer’s suggestions, is usually intended for newspapers. So now there he is; this pink teddy, on his back, looking a bit agog, arms, legs spread wide, blind, black plastic eyes and red, red heart tilting face up to the ceiling at a forty five degree angle. Ready for departure.

     “What are you doing?”

     Kate glares at him like she might set him on fire.  Swings between telling him what an idiot he is and not saying anything. For the moment she says nothing. Only continues her rant around the room. Her every move is a tirade against what they have become, against him, his moods, his very existence. She is grabbing things in a fury. Vincent watches. Thinks now he knows why storms are named after females. Certainly, this is Hurricane Kate. 

     At the bureau now, she seizes a small photo in a silver frame. Picks it up, feels his eyes on her. A picture of happier times. She and Vincent, faces jammed together, grinning. Woolen hats, at the skating rink in Rockefeller Plaza. The great golden statue fuzzy behind them. She shoves her emotions into the bag she has found that she carries around in her gut. 

     “Mind if I take this?”

     Vincent shakes his head. He stands still by the door leaning, watching. Decides this looks bad, his hanging over her like a dog. He refuses to be the dog. Wonders how their positions became reversed so strongly, suddenly. She is the strong one now.

     “Let me know when you’re done.” Then he is gone. She hears the refrigerator door suck open, like a clam being pried apart, then the solid wham as it closes. Bottle opener to beer to counter. A litter of clatters. She wonders if she really wants him to make more of a fuss.  Shouldn’t he fight her departure, rail against it like he does against nearly everything? She feels a slight softening inside. Pauses, breathes. Looks straight ahead at the only white wall in the whole apartment. White because Vincent thought there should be some clear “meditative space” amidst the swarm of colors. Paint swatches litter the floor from her trip to the local hardware, an Ace run by an incomprehensible brown skinned man from Sri Lanka.  Kate always squints, leans forward, watching his lips when she listens to him speak as if that might help her understand the swirling sounds that come out of his mouth.

     She is by the front door now. Feeling not quite done, as if there was some final action required or words said.  Wondering if at the end of something, a life, a relationship, if one ever did feel really done or if it was just like that time when she was six and her grandfather died over his bowl of clam chowder only half eaten. She hadn’t understood why he didn’t finish eating his soup.  Asked if she could finish it for him. Didn’t understand her father’s rage at her for asking.

     Vincent sitting in the glossy chair again. Trying not to look. Kate behind him.

     “What about my painting?”

     “What painting?” 

     Another stupid question. He knows. It is the painting he made for her last year. The painting sits, enshrined on the mantle piece over the inoperative fire place. A woman, it is Kate, she can see herself there, stands alone on the sidewalk next to the sign for the number 9 train downtown, the red line. A scarf around her neck a deeper shade of red than the subway sign. The surface of the sidewalk, the top of the sign, appear to be falling away from solidity. Viridian flecks her scarf and the air around her small face. The street lights, yellow and nimbused against the darkening blue mix with imagined stars and flickering neon signs, while Kate stands alone, not yet descending to the subway, as if someone had called her name, casting a questioning eye back, one hand on the iron rail.

     She is with her bags by the door. The sea bag on top of the rolling suitcase, secured by a frayed green bungie.  The teddy bear stares out to the hallway light. Always on.  A sallow yellow. 

     “Don’t be an idiot. You know what painting I’m talking about. It’s me after all.” 

     He will not want to surrender it. She is ready to go.  But there is just this one last thing. It occurs to her that she is unsure who she is testing, herself or Vincent and for what reason. 

     “Come on.”

     They turn, look. Their actions still linked. Months from now they will each remember this moment, wonder at the feeling of connection. How it endured despite everything. 

     “Kate, don’t cajole me, okay?” 

     Vincent, pauses, folds his arms in front of his stomach. “You can’t have it. Things were different then.”

     Kate steadies herself. Concentrates on the mantle.  The cool white wood, touch of blue from below, reflection of blue tile underneath, like the inside of an oyster shell. Soft and hard at the same time. Of all the times she and Vincent have been through, this is the most bitter and sad. How she feels she couldn’t stand to be with him another moment but at the same time loves him still. It might seem impossible but it’s true.  Kate young enough to still find this fact perplexing.

     At least she should have this painting. His mark and in a way, just as much hers. A souvenir. A clue or a puzzle piece to be solved later. And yes, she thinks, of course it was sentimental but there it is. What can she do? As her great grandmother Virginia had once said, “Well, there one is.  Isn’t one?”

     “You never even would have painted it without me.  Give me a break.”

     She loves it. This mysterious image of herself. She often wonders what the Kate in the painting might be thinking. Feels her as a piece of herself in another universe, parallel to this one. She feels a stubborn nut inside of her that refuses to say, “Vincent I love this painting. It’s become a piece of me.” But she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. She just wants to get the painting, go away and sort it all out in her own head. 

     Looking at it now she thinks when they met at Saint Mark’s. She had been pretty desperate. So tired of just living. All the crap with her family. Her mother’s cancer.  Her idiot brother’s antics at the funeral. New York had been wearing her out. But now. She felt strong.

          “You know what you’re like? A snake biting your own tail,” she says. “Did you hear yourself today? The irony! You trying to say that I’m the one always trying to fix things. Ha!  The truth is you don’t know how to just be. Don’t know how to just love. You’re love makes me sick.” 

     It is as if, she thinks, and she doesn’t know where this image comes to her from, but it seems as if she can see him, riding a bike and working so hard, as if peddling up Everest, when  he is in fact only riding along level ground.

     “You see Vincent? You never relax. About anything.  I’m tired. I don’t need to do this anymore. I don’t want to. But I do want my painting.”

     She lurches for the canvas which sits against the wall, unframed. Her wrist, thin, decorated only by a slim green watch and single silver bracelet without charms, looks pale against the brilliant colour. He grabs it, clenches her tightly in his hand.

     “You’re not taking it.” 

     She has it in her other hand, grasping the top stretcher.    

     “Vincent! Let go of me.”