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.