"Charcoal" by JZ

Competition 1 Winner

Disclaimer: The following story is a work of fiction and does not reflect the author's beliefs.

"A dozen grand!"

"Going once, going twice, and sold to number twenty-seven!" The gavel fell, the painting was removed from the easel, and there was a mild wave of clapping. I stood from my seat at the back of the auction and moved to the refreshments table, where I allowed myself a coffee and sugar cookie. A man sidled close to me and struggled with the coffee dispenser, but I paid him no mind until he dyed his cream-colored outfit brown.

"... damn contraption," he was saying when I turned, and he did not stem the flow of profanity as his hand reached for the empty napkin bin. I looked at him with mild interest and continued to do so as he noticed my heels and his gaze traveled upwards. His words faltered. "Ah, pardon me, Miss...?"

"You're in the way." I brought his attention to the space behind him with a subtle wave of my hand and his eyebrows rose before he moved back for me. I smiled and brushed past.

It was as if I'd seen him do it before. The moment I returned to my seat, the man was up beside me again with his hands curiously behind his back. He surveyed me for a moment before deciding that I wasn't going to strike up conversation and hence did so himself. "I'm Kenneth. I presume you're Sandra?"

"Miss Roberts to you, sir," I corrected coolly.

"Miss Roberts," he repeated dutifully, "I'm twenty-seven."

"You don't look twenty-seven," I replied curtly.

"No, no, I'm number twenty-seven, Kenneth Ricardo," he clarified and held his paddle up to his face. "I bought your portrait of my father. You made him handsomer than he was."

I looked him in the eye and smiled again. "And you paid more than you needed to."

"Did I?" he mused to himself for a second and then resumed. "What materials did you use? It has a beautiful... It is very beautiful."

I squinted my eyes at the stage, where another painting was being placed delicately upon the easel. All rich men were like such—they considered themselves to be the subject of every woman's desires, and upon crossing across a sensible dame who had no interest in their money or appearance or social status, they would have to practice their rusty flirts. Mr. Ricardo cared very little for my materials. "Are you looking into the art industry?"

"No, not quite. After my father passed away, I decided to branch out to investing, but," he said, "if I had you by my side, I think we could make it work."

I slid past him once more and waited for my coat to be brought out while checking my purse for a cigarette. “It is actually very difficult to find the correct shade of charcoal. I blend ashes into paint. A secret ingredient. A little fire.”

I retrieved a lighter and slipped the cigarette into his mouth. His words muffled by the object, he inquired, “Eh thah whah you uthe?”

I nodded and let him drape the coat over my shoulders.

“I’m slightly jealous. Do you think you could paint me too?”

I hesitated momentarily but conceded. My secret ingredient was in short supply.

“It’s small,” he noted, his gaze wandering around the studio.

“It’s practical,” I returned and brushed a comb through my hair to release it from its curls. “Anything wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

"Well then—”

He turned around with an expression full of motive and I instantly understood that idle talk had become a luxury. I felt my hand reach for the palette on the easel behind me and then the painting knife resting upon it, pressing myself against an empty canvas.

“What did my father do to you?”

I was silent. Confused. Waiting. It was not what I’d anticipated I'd hear.

He closed the distance between us by a step's length and my grip on the handle grew tighter. In the same quietly bemused voice he repeated, “What did my father do to you?”

“What do you mean?” I was at a loss and my eyes betrayed me.

How did he know?

“So it was you,” he whispered.

I took the knife out from behind me. “Like father, like son.”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, whatever he did, I’m not about to repeat it.”

“Are you telling me to not be afraid?”

“I should be the one afraid, shouldn’t I? I hardly know what happened but I know it had something to do with you. I only wish to talk. Please, let us just talk.” He was pleading to a wounded tiger.

I let my hand drop slightly and instantly there were tears on my cheeks. My hands trembled, my arms shook, my lips quivered. I heard a breath of relief and then there were arms around me, squeezing me just tightly enough to immobilize my shoulders. My lips curled.

Mr. Ricardo stiffened without a sound and his fingers dug into my back deep enough to hurt. My hand pushed further down and he let out a gasp as if my shove had both forced the knife in and the breath out.

“I’m glad you bought my painting, Kenneth. Your father paid quite the price for it.”

Mr. Ricardo fell.

“Fifteen grand!”

“Going once, going twice, and sold to number fifty-three! I’m very sorry about your husband by the way, Mrs. Ricardo. The painting is beautiful.”

I smiled and sipped coffee.