Your shoulders quaked; your avalanche buried my hope and dream.

"What happened?" I pressed, my hand rubbing along your spine. I'd seen you upset before, but not like this – frail form curled inwards on the floor, all but wreckage and strangled sobs. So defeated, so diminutive.

You handed me a scarlet envelop embellished in black and gold. Taking it, I slipped out the sheet which was inside, unfolded it, and began to read.

It was from The Gorgeous & The Grotesque, the art gallery you'd been waiting to hear back from for the past month. I didn't understand what it was about, but as I read on, the language became harsher and harsher, and I went from being annoyed at the derision in it to downright furious. The letter ended with: Your work is ridiculously inane and gaudy. The lack of substance is astounding. I wouldn't touch your "art" with a bargepole, much less display it in our establishment. Do refrain from wasting our time in the future. Thank you.

However, I decided that you needed my comfort more than my anger. So, I undid my crutches and, bracing my weight on the shoe cabinet, I lowered myself to the ground and sat next to you. I put an arm around you and drew you closer, whispering, "I'm so sorry that happened."

Your sobs had died down, but you were still crying. As you wept and hiccupped, your face tucked against my shoulder, my rage resurfaced for retribution. I could rein it no longer.

"I'm so sorry," I said, tightening my hold on you, "that those fuckers at The Gorgeous & The Grotesque have their heads so far up their prolapsed assholes that they failed to see the beauty of your work—to—to recognize the value of it."

There came a giggle, a little warbled by your sniffling, and you shifted. I released you so you could lean back against the wall beside me. "Thank you," you said quietly. You took a deep breath and I heard it tremble as you tried so hard to compose yourself. "I can deal with rejection—I've had many... but none so... why did he have to be so, so, so awful? What did I ever do to—" a choke subdued your words. You resorted to your compulsive habit of chewing your lower lip.

"You see, Solé," I said rhetorically, "prolapsed anuses cannot hold the shit back."

You chuckled again, wiping the tears off your frost-kissed cheeks. "That makes sense. It's weird, I'm not gonna lie, but logical."

I lifted my hands, palms upturned, nonchalantly shrugging. Silence tried to creep between us, but I wasn't done. My anger could be your comfort. "I fucking hate critics," I ended up saying. "I mean, the thing is, I'm willing to bet the remainder of my legs that this guy can't make art. Even if he can, it can never hold a candle to yours. So what the fuck gives him the authority to devalue your hard work and passion like that?" And from there, I was running on the rage-rail. "The fact that he uses 'whimsical' as an insult, as if he is the objective judge of what's mature and adult and seasoned art, is laughable. The fact that that is coming from someone who gets off of shitting on others' work is abso-fucking-lutely laughable. Oh! He writes that your work is gaudy and sends it in an envelope like this?"

Looking at me sideways, you asked, "are you mad?"

"A little, yeah," I admitted, glowering at the golden insignia of The Gorgeous & The Grotesque at the top of the page.

Brow agog, you repeated, "a little?"

"Okay, well... I, uh, understand constructive criticism and recognize its worth but this," I crushed the whole thing, letter and envelope and all, in my fist, "is just obnoxious. Contemptuous. And disdainful. This only reflects poorly on that odious gallery. It takes—can never take—anything away from your art. Ever. Frankly, I'm glad that they didn't get their venomous hands on your work."

You mouth lifted in one corner, your smile lines deepening most delightfully. "Contemptuous, disdainful, odious..." you listed, eyes twinkling. "I'm always so blown away by how you talk. You're so verbose."

That was my indication that you didn't want to linger on this anymore for now. If a distraction is what you wished for, I would give you it. "It's all Mum's doing. She made me read a lot and encouraged me to learn how to use any new words I came across."

"Everything you tell me about her makes me wish I could meet her," you murmured, dropping your head on my shoulder.

An odd, cozy warmth fluffed up inside me. I tipped my head against yours. "I wish you could meet her, too..."

This time, I let the tranquil hush gather around us. Mimi settled upon your legs, purring like a tiny motor. You stroked her fur from head to tail. That moment was suspended in time and space. It was just you and me and Mimi – unmoving, unaging – in our hallway.

Then your stomach growled. Glancing down at the top of your crown, I queried, "you hungry?"

"No," you replied, your tenor testy.

"Are you sure?"

"I don't know..." you muttered uncertainly.

Your tummy grumbled out a more definitive answer than you, to which I said, "alright, time to eat. Come on."

You rose first, then helped me into the wheelchair. We made our way to the living room, Mimi scampering ahead of us, and you stopped so abruptly I ran right into you. "Woah!" you exclaimed and swiveled to face me. "Viktor, what's going on?"

"Umm... well..." I'd fully forgotten what I'd done to the place; my thoughts scrambled.

"This looks—oh my gosh, hydrangeas!" Slowly, I followed you, watching you take everything in. Awe shone in your wide eyes, in your wonderstruck smile. "Champagne! What are we celebrating?"

"I got promoted. And wait till you hear of the benefits."

Incandescent with felicity, you whooped. "That's amazing, Viktor! I'm so happy for you!"

Bending, you wrapped me up in a tight hug. I inhaled the fragrance of your lavender shampoo, a grin tugging at my lips. Strangely enough, I wasn't mad about the loss of my opportunity. I wasn't frustrated, I wasn't disheartened...

I was happy with what we had and what we were. You were enough.

◈