It is but agony of desire. —Edgar Allan Poe, from “Tamerlane,” 1827 The soup has a bit to go,” Anna said, pulling out a chair at the small table by the door. “Do you want something to drink?” “No. Thanks.” I sat across from her. She rubbed her hands over the leather portfolio. “This was a surprise. It’s hard for you to share your art, isn’t it?” “Yes.” She ran her fingertips along the zipper present on three sides. “I noticed how uncomfortable you were when Francine showed me your paintings at the store. What are you afraid of?” What I always feared: rejection—the one constant in my life. I didn’t answer but watched as her fingertips skimmed their way along the zipper to the end. “Did you bring them to show me?” I held my breath as she grasped the pull on the zipper. She met my eyes, asking permission without words. “Yes,” I whispered. My heart raced as she traced the pull around the portfolio, laying it open. She met my eyes again before turning her attention to the contents.
