At 7:30 Jocelyn pulled into the parking lot of her Normal Heights apartment, suddenly hungry for Trey’s meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Purse over one shoulder and picture case in hand, she climbed the stairs on tip-toe. If the Lopez’s dog heard her, his howling would set the neighbors squabbling. She slid inside the door, catching naked Trey heading to the bedroom with a spoon and a pint of pistachio ice cream. “What’ya got?” he said.
“Trey, really?”
“I just got out of the shower . . .”
“O.K. Wait in the bedroom.” She exchanged the Van Gogh print above the kitchen table for the 26 × 36 inch Gilletto portrait. “Okay,” she yodeled,” come see.”
He’d put on a pair of corduroy shorts and his orange Halloween socks. Still shoveling in green melty stuff, he stared at the picture. “What is it?”
“A Gilletto.”
“Holy shit, I married a thief! Are you friggin’ nuts?”
“It’s paid for . . .”
“You mortgage our souls?”
“It’s twenty-five bucks, Trey.”
“Oh. Who’s the guy?” He aimed the empty carton and hit the trashcan.
“Olivad Borghese. I Googled him. He was some famous Argentine tango dancer in the 1930s.”
“He was a real person?” He held up a thumb and slowly moved it back and forth. “Hmmm. Such realism. Such depth.’
“Oh, stop.” She spied a plate of meat and potatoes in the microwave and hit the automatic two minute button. “Thanks for dinner, Honey.”
He was still studying the picture. “You think he’s sexy?”
“Ask me after I’ve eaten. Right now, I only have eyes for food.”