Everyone was arriving for the dinner.
You found yourself in the bathroom with mother, incensed, your hands around her throat. She’d mentioned the shame you’d brought to “us all”, but she wouldn’t explain it, ‘the how’ or ‘the why’, wouldn’t say any more – somehow you sensed it was something to do with the way you’d parked the car on the drive
continuing ad nauseam with layer after layer of paint applied to, then subtracted from, the canvas: grey paint being poured onto the large rectangular hole in the stencil time and time again. But it never seemed to stick, always draining away. So you were surprised when, eventually, they held the canvas up for inspection, that some traces of paint remained, in which you could see, they said, “the distorted face of the artist”.