One afternoon he left his gloves behind. I assumed he was in the garage and went to give them to him. The door was slightly open. Dust floated in the light.
Inside, every wall was covered with portraits of a woman—laughing, crying, sleeping, aging. In the corners were dates. Some were in the future.
I pulled one down. “Who is she?”
Henry stood behind me. “I asked you not to come in.”
“Who is this woman?”
He swallowed. “I paint to hold on to time.”
I walked out shaking.
Days later, I saw him take cash from the safe and leave in his good jacket. I followed him. He went to a private neurology clinic.
From the hallway I heard the doctor say, “Her condition is progressing faster than expected.”
“How much time?” Henry asked.
