Going, Going, Gone

"Paint me like one of your French boys," I had said, in mock Winslet.

And what did I get? This. I mean, it's fine and everything. I don't look awful. He got my ears spot on. The bags under my eyes could not be there, obviously. I hadn't noticed the dried bloodstains from our row. I'd have changed my clothes.

He said we were in a 'gloveless marriage'. So, you know, all that stuff around me is a private joke.

It hurt me when he said that. He laughed like it was the funniest thing. He said it more than once a week. Whether he could see it hurt me, I don't know. I'm not good at 'wounded'. I tend to look bored instead of upset. As you can see from my eyes, I look more tired than emotional.

I asked him what a 'gloveless marriage' meant. He said, 'you don't warm my extremities anymore.' I said it was easier to feel things without gloves. He said, 'feeling is the least of my worries.'

That painting next to me is another joke. I'm telling you this because I need you to understand him. That's his self portrait there. He made me stand in that place so he could make his portrait stare at my back. He always hated my back, said it was 'a disfunction of the human form'. He used to scrape the dry skin off with a file every morning to wake me up.

Going, Going, Gone

When he left, he left this painting in the attic. Covered in bubble wrap, no note. I knew I'd find it and he knew I'd sell it to you.

Don't put it with the others, please. Store it somewhere safe if you must keep it. But don't contaminate the collection with this toxic... thing.

I will wait until you have acknowledged this letter so I can be sure that you know what this painting means. Only after this will I bank the cheque.

Yours,

Steven