by Alex Miller
He put out the light and lay on the chaise and pulled the doona up around his ears and closed his eyes. He was glad to be alone with the hammering of the rain on the roof and the howling of the sirens along High Street. He did not want to see the studio. He did not want to be reminded of the familiar shapes in the dark. He wanted to sleep, and while he slept he wanted time to pass. ‘They’re coming home,’ he murmured into the warmth of the doona. I will always love you. And I know that you will always love me. I think we both know this. Our love is not as simple or as nice or as straightforward and perfect as I thought it was, but it is still real and it is still love . . . First he would paint a portrait of his father. He could see his father seated at the table in the kitchen, painting by the light of the single bulb, bending over his work in the night silence, his glasses on the end of his nose, the household objects of his meditation taking shape under his hand. But that would not be the picture. The picture would surprise him. He did not know what the portrait of his father would look like when it was finished. He knew for certain only that its title would be Prochownik’s Dream.
