“The grease from the hardware store is going to get under that plastic, Dustin,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road.
“It is sealed tight, Mom,” he said, staring out the passenger window at the passing row of maple trees.
I turned onto Oak Creek Parkway, where the traffic always backed up near the county line. The silence between us felt heavy, different from our usual morning quiet.
“A portrait like that takes real time,” I said, adjusting my grip on the steering wheel. “And it does not come cheap.”
Dustin did not look at me, but his fingers tapped a quick, nervous rhythm against his knee. “Dad took care of it.”
“He just handed the artist his credit card?” I asked.
“No,” Dustin said, his voice dropping an octave. “He paid five hundred dollars cash.”
Five hundred dollars in green bills, handed over in a dark parlor while my son sat in a chair and let a needle scar his skin. I tapped the brake as a yellow delivery truck cut in front of us, my mind calculating how many hours of billing entry it took to clear that much after taxes.
