Till Death Do Us Part

“Why don’t you get a job?” Rita yelled.

“I have a job. I’m an artist,” Myron countered.

“Apparently you aren’t a very good one, ’cause you’ve only sold one painting through that Starving Artist sale for $19 and then you only got half of that amount.”

“A big breakthrough will come. I can just feel it.”

“While you’re waiting for that big breakthrough, I’m working my fingers to the bone trying to keep food on our table and a roof over our heads,” Rita declared. “You could at least get a part-time job to help instead of sitting around here looking through those travel books. Your problem is that you’re just a dreamer and not a doer.” Rita stomped to the door. “I’m off to work—again.”

“Nag, nag, nag. If you don’t like it, why don’t you just leave?”

Rita turned and wagged her finger at him. “Oh, no. You’re not getting rid of me. It’s until death us do part, buddy.”

“How about for richer or poorer?”

“Well, you got the poorer down good. How about some richer?”

“Goodbye, dear. Have a nice day.” Myron waved a half-hearted wave.

Myron watched out the window until Rita drove down the street and was out of sight. He leaned over, picked up a travel book on Italy, walked over to his large stuffed chair, and plopped down, putting his feet up on the ottoman.

My problem is that I have to paint from pictures—two-dimensional pictures, and then my paintings are two dimensional paintings. When I walk to the park and paint, I get more life into the painting because I’m painting something real. My picture of the old man on the bench sold in one weekend. There was life, pathos, a sense of really being there watching the old man wasting his day feeding the pigeons.

Myron opened the book and mindlessly thumbed through the pages, looking for something to strike his interest. The picture on page 126 caused him to pause. It was a picture of a painter sitting at his easel. The painting was partially completed and the angle of the photograph showed what the artist saw as he looked out onto the Mediterranean Sea. Numerous fishing boats of every shape and color dotted the horizon.

Myron put the open book upside down on his lap and put his hands back behind his head and closed his eyes. If only I was there. If wishing could only get me there, that would be me sitting on the rocky shore painting my masterpiece. If I could just wish, just wish, just…”

Seconds passed, maybe hours. Myron looked around and rubbed his eyes. He was sitting on the rocky shore with his easel in front of him dabbing his paintbrush into the burnt sienna, the exact color of the boat in front of him. I don’t know how but this is fantastic. I feel life flowing into my painting. I can sit here forever with the cool breeze blowing through my hair. So a dreamer’s dreams can come true.

“What have you done, Myron?” Rita yelled from a short distance away. “Where are we? I’ve never been to this beach. How did we get here? What are we going to do for money? I have nothing but my work clothes. It’s just like you to get us someplace where we probably don’t even speak the language.”

Myron looked back at Rita and sighed. Till death us do part.