Woman Unbroken

           “Why are you crying?” The boy leaned down to see her face and watched her quietly, his tanned features pursed in concentration.

           It unnerved Michelle so much so that she blurted, “Because all this time I was a fucking beard!”

           He frowned as she slammed a hand over her mouth in shock, “My mommy says not to use that word.”

           It was around noon and Michelle was seated in front of what she thought was an atrocious painting of a 17th century woman. She had come to the art museum out of a rebellious necessity to maintain her dignity but now she was sure she had just about done the opposite. In the 15 minutes she had been there she had managed to piss off a guard by making too much noise, indefinitely smudged her makeup, and now insulted a little boy’s innocence.

           Michelle wiped under her eyes and tried to cover her face in her hair, “Yes, your mommy is a smart lady.”

           He didn’t answer; instead he just wandered about the room, pretending to note every painting with an intense comprehension. Part of her was grateful for the quiet, but the part of herself that dragged down wouldn’t let her feel it. An image of Spencer tangled up with another person in the bed they had shared so many intimate moments made her choke on a sob. Today they were supposed to be staring at this painting together, bickering lightly over the meaning. He would say all of this was useless and without purpose. Then he would playfully complain that there were better ways to spend their time. But no, it would seem that Michelle was destined to have a pity party by herself, in front of a god-awful piece of canvas.

           The boy pointed at the depiction, “She’s pretty.” He proclaimed, “Do you think she’s pretty?”

           The woman watched Michelle with a cool indifference in her murky blue eyes. Her lips pressed together in silent judgement. Even her pose suggested boredom and resentment from gazing upon things less worthy than her. Dawned in white with a long piece of fabric that wrapped itself under her chin and entwined in her hair she looked like a patron saint, staring down with an effortless might. The waterfall behind her was pompous and gaudy. Michelle tried to imagine setting fire to the very grass the woman leaned on, but then those cold irises only seemed more wrathful. How pathetic, those red lips puckered. The burgundy plaque beside the piece read Portrait of Countess Nikolai Alexandrovich Tolstoy, née Princess Anna Ivanovna; a countess, but no saint.

           A full year, Spencer had not only been seeing someone else, but had changed tastes completely. There is a saying that once a relationship reaches the two year pinnacle you start to find all the flaws in your partner unbearable. However, Michelle wondered if one of her flaws was being blind to the fact that her boyfriend of two years had been gay for the later half of their relationship. She had come home all primped to spend a romantic day with her boyfriend when she walked in on noises that sounded like two animals in pain. Her biggest regret, oddly enough, was breaking her grandmother’s lamp when she almost fainted at the sight of another man mounting Spencer. Fainting was not something Michelle liked to think she did, but then again dating a man who wasn't even attracted to her was not one either.

           Spencer had tried to calm her, covering himself in a bed sheet while his partner just sprawled across their IKEA bed without a care to be had. Somehow, he managed to get her seated and somewhat more stable before he made a casual proposal:

           “I mean we could still go out on dates now and then – that doesn't have to change.” When he received nothing, he continued with his pleading gaze, “I really need your help with this, Mish, you know how my family is.”

           “So you want me to pretend we’re a happy couple while you’re fucking – god knows who, no, do not tell me – and I’m just supposed to what, sleep on the couch?”

           Spencer fidgeted, “Actually I was thinking we could go a little farther than that.”

           She eyed him from underneath her bangs and dared him to say it, “I was going to say we should get married.”

           “Are you insane?”

           “Come on, Mish, you know we get along so well. I mean, my parents love you and you’d be such an amazing mother –”

           “Don’t you dare promise me with a happy home for even a second, we both know you don’t have any desire to make fucking babies with me, or any woman, I guess, for that matter. You do know what that involves, right: A vagina and a penis, Spencer.”

           “Well,” his head sunk in his shoulders a bit and he looked away, “technically you really only need sperm.”

           That was around the time a vase just barely grazed his ear and she was already snagging her jacket on her arm as she stormed out. Her reverie was pushed away as she felt two soft and tiny arms wrap themselves around her head firmly. She held onto the hem of his little sweater and shook hard for a long moment then let go.

           "Thank you," she sniffed and let out a bark of a laugh, "I needed that."

           "Hugs make everything better." he said this like it was common knowledge.

           Michelle smiled, and it was, "I guess she's nice, but I don't think she likes me much."

           Upon closer inspection, he shook his head definitively, "No, she thinks you're pretty too."

           Snorting, "I disagree."

           He continued, his innocence ignoring her cynicism, "She has that nice hair that my mom tries to have, but dad and I know she doesn't. And her eyes make me happy, Her dress is also really cool, I guess, for a dress - I mean I don't like dresses cause I'm a boy but you know what I mean. Red is my favourite colour too, her lips are all red. Just, I don't know, everything about her makes me feel warm."

           As he spoke, Michelle surveyed the woman, her vision following his words. Eyes of a deep, bottomless blue beamed with little flecks of light that came in the form of a subtle regard. Curls of dark red softened her features and her mouth seemed to be holding back a smile for the sake of beauty. The fabric loosened around her chin, and was tousled in her locks not gripping together. The white dress no longer condemning, but encouraged like an angel lightly resting on God's green earth. She was out of reach yet accessible, stunning, but not flaunting.

           Something gentle tugged at the corners of her mouth, "And how does that make me pretty?"

           "Because, dad says every woman deserves to think they're beautiful."

           A warmth flowed from deep in her chest and stretched all the way out to her toes. Her cheeks tingled and she broke out into a heavy smile, "I think you have amazing parents, Mister."
The child lit up, "I only get called 'Mister' when I'm in trouble!"

           "You'll have no trouble from me."

           He grinned, his teeth practically took up half his face, "My name's Armando, but everyone calls me Manny."

           "Nice to meet you, Manny, I'm Michelle."

           After a long moment of him eagerly watching her, she gave in, "Why don't you sit with me for a bit, then we'll go find your parents."

           He wrapped one of those smooth arms around her waist and scooted his bottom onto the leather seat. The silence they shared held a particular kind of glowing resilience that was almost visible. Blindness comes in all forms and, as age takes over, we become averted to the very things within arm's reach. Maybe innocence isn't the same as ignorance, only clarity.

           "Manny!" a woman let out a sound of exasperation. Michelle turned and was visually bombarded by a Hispanic woman in blue jeans and a Mickey Mouse t-shirt. Manny hopped off the cushion and reached out to her. In a moment, Michelle felt a painful twinge of something hard to name, then it was gone when the woman swept him up and held him hard.

           "I told you to wait for mommy outside of the washroom!"

           "But there was a scary statue and I heard a lady crying." he glanced at Michelle, but his mother gave no notice and wiped at his scruffy jeans.

           "Sometimes people are sad and they need to be left alone, Sweetie."

           "I don't think so, no one likes to be left alone." he smiled at his friend.

           Manny's mother finally looked up at Michelle and flew into a wave of apologies, but Michelle waved it off, "He is a very sweet boy. He learned from the best in my opinion."

           The mother gave her a timid smile and whisked him away. When he craned his neck to see Michelle she winked at him.