That’s when I noticed the paintings. One caught my eye immediately—a nude portrait of Naomi, draped in a sheet, her face half-turned, a mole on her collarbone. It was unmistakably her. The image hit me like a punch, a thousand feelings rushing to the surface.
I moved closer to the painting, almost in a trance, as if maybe I could understand why, why she’d done any of this.
Suddenly, the elevator chimed, and the doors opened. There she was—Naomi, carrying two large grocery bags, her face a mixture of surprise and annoyance as she spotted me. She quickly masked it, her expression settling into a scowl.
“Didn’t I tell you to bring soup to the hospital, Eli?” Her voice was cold, almost biting. “Jason is sick. You think it’s alright to leave him waiting?”
I didn’t answer. I just looked at her, taking in the person standing before me. The woman I’d once loved so deeply, who I’d shared my life with, suddenly felt like a stranger.
She huffed, clearly irritated by my silence. “Fine,” she said, glancing at me with impatience. “You’re here anyway. I brought groceries. You can cook for him here, and I’ll take him to the hospital afterward. Once you’ve made the soup, put it in a thermos and bring it over, alright?”
The coldness in her voice, the entitlement—it was too much. I shook her hand off when she reached out to push me inside.
“Naomi,” I said firmly, “why don’t you tell them who really owns this place?”
……
