February passed slowly.
Maya woke each morning to grey skies. The winter was cold. The new apartment had radiators that worked – most of the time. But the windows were drafty. She wore two sweaters and a scarf indoors.
She spent her days in the studio.
At first, she didn't draw. She just sat. She looked at the blank page. She thought about the bridge. The garden. Mrs. Patterson. The roof.
Leo brought her coffee. He didn't talk. He just set the cup on the desk and left.
On the tenth day, she picked up her pencil.
She drew the water tank. The painted eye. The rusted metal. The spigot that dripped.
It wasn't a good drawing. The proportions were off. The shading was too dark.
But it was something.
She kept drawing.
---
Leo came home from work one evening to find her still in the studio. The desk lamp was on. The room was cold.
"You've been here all day," he said.
"I lost track of time."
He looked at the drawings on the desk. The water tank. The garden. The roof. The milk crate.
"These are good," he said.
"They're not good. They're practice."
"Practice is good."
She set down her pencil. Her hand cramped. "I'm trying to draw the building. But I can't get it right."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm too close to it. I can't see it clearly."
Leo sat on the floor. "Then draw something else."
"Like what?"
"Like me."
She looked at him. His face was tired. His eyes had dark circles. His hair was messy.
"You're not a good subject," she said.
"Why not?"
"Because you move too much."
He stayed still. "I can be still."
She picked up her pencil. She drew.
His jaw. His eyes. His hands. The way he sat – cross-legged, back straight, shoulders relaxed.
When she finished, she held up the sketchbook.
He looked at it. "You made me look tired."
"You are tired."
"You made me look sad."
"You are sad."
He took the sketchbook from her. He looked at the drawing for a long time.
"It's good," he said.
"It's not finished."
"Nothing is."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. The desk lamp flickered.
---
The next day, Maya went to the old building.
The front door was locked. She used her key – it still worked. The lobby was dark. The new lightbulbs had been removed. The mailboxes were empty.
She climbed the stairs. The steps were dusty. The walls were bare.
The roof door was propped open with the brick. The brick was still there.
The roof was empty. The garden was gone. The buckets were gone. The stakes were gone. The easel was gone.
The only thing left was the water tank. And the painted eye.
Maya walked to the tank. She touched the eye. The paint was dry. The blue was still bright.
"Goodbye," she said.
She went back down.
---
She stopped at Mr. Delgado's door. She knocked.
He opened it. He looked older than she remembered. Thinner. His cane was in his hand.
"You came back," he said.
"I came to say goodbye."
"To the building?"
"To you."
He looked at the floor. "I'm not leaving."
"I know."
"My daughter called. She wants me to come to Ohio."
"Are you going?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "I bought a ticket. For March 15th."
Maya's throat tightened. "That's good."
"It's not good. It's necessary."
She hugged him. He was thin. His shoulders were bony.
"Take care of yourself," she said.
"You too."
She walked down the stairs. She didn't look back.