Night Vision

"Can you stop slurping like that?"

Jared lowered his beer. He grinned at me with a foam moustache. I rolled my eyes.

I looked around at the patio. Other couples were seated at oak-barrel tables beneath brightly coloured umbrellas, laughing in the shade. My legs stuck to the chair as I fidgeted.

Jared tilted his glass back and picked up the grease-stained menu. "Oh damn! They have Blind Badger. I fricken love that beer. They brew it right here in the valley, you know." He burped.

I squirmed, checking the time. "Are you sure you want another drink? We're supposed to be at your parents' in half an hour." Jared tossed the menu onto the table, clunking his glass down on top. I watched it sweat onto the paper, leaving a soppy ring. We paid our bill and walked to the car.

I got behind the wheel. Jared plopped into the passenger seat and turned on the radio. He drummed his hands on the dashboard.

I stared at him. "Where am I going?"

"Oh yeah! I guess you've never been there before, hey. Crazy."

Jared and I had been together for 11 months. I had met his mom a few times, when she'd dropped by his apartment to bring him some baking or to take us out to coffee. Her and Jared were close, and I got along with her well enough. But I'd never been introduced to Jared's father, never had the official "meet the parents" dinner.

As I drove, I thought about when Jared and I first started dating. He had always been comfortable around me, as if we were married. He left things laying around his apartment when I came over, and at first I had liked this intimate messiness. Jared had no pretensions. He wasn't putting on a show for anyone, not even the girl he was seeing.

But as the months went on, it dawned on me that Jared's carefree confidence might be built on obliviousness. He'd get excited and talk overtop of people. He'd pick at a scab in public. We'd never been on a plane together, but some deep dark part of me knew that he would slip off his shoes and sweaty socks under the seat.

Jared told me to turn onto Pine Street. "It's just ten minutes down this road." He hummed along to the radio.

Silent, I returned to a familiar fantasy - breaking up with Jared. I felt a wave of guilt. There was nothing really wrong with Jared. He treated me well. He made me feel safe.

And yet - there was something about him - some murky flatness, like soda left out in the sun. Sometimes his eyes unfocused when I talked for too long. He was prone to zoning out. Yes, he had the warmth of a golden retriever. His laugh was infectious. But my doubt lingered.

I pushed these thoughts aside. Maybe Jared would blossom at dinner tonight! What if I didn't know him as well as I thought I did? Maybe being in his natural habitat would reveal a hidden spark. Maybe I just wasn't bringing out the best in him.

Jared pointed to a yellow house up on the right side of the street. I pulled into the driveway.

I parked, feeling a bit nervous. Jared grabbed my leg.

"Ready? I'm starving. I hope mom made pot roast." He lunged out of the car, not waiting for my answer. I unbuckled my seatbelt.

We stepped into the entryway. Jan poked her head out from the end of the hall. "Hi guys! Come on in. We're just in the kitchen."

My socks slid on the hardwood floor as I followed Jared through the corridor. I paused to look at a gorgeous landscape painting on the wall, a redwood forest emerging from the fog. Jared turned. "Oh, my dad painted that."

I looked at him, startled. "You didn't tell me your dad was a painter."

He shrugged and kept walking. We entered the warm kitchen. Jan was bustling around, tending to pots on the stove. She looked up when we walked in, smiled at Jared, beamed at me. "Welcome! Cara, I can't believe you've never been here before. You already feel like part of the family. Come on in, sit down." She motioned to the table behind me. I turned.

Seated at the table was Jared's father.

He stood, and our eyes met. I felt a jolt of familiarity, although I was certain I'd never seen him before. He wore a black button-down shirt, rolled up at the elbows. He reached out to shake my hand. "Nice to meet you, Cara. I've heard a lot about you. I'm Dean."

Jared and Jan shared the same chocolate brown eyes; Dean's were bright sky blue, and as they locked onto mine, I felt like time slowed down. His grip was firm, intentional. He smiled, but behind the crow's feet, his gaze glittered with sharp focus. He let go of my hand.

We all sat down to dinner. As the night went on, I kept wondering to myself - how could Jared be the son of this man? I looked at my boyfriend. He was telling a story with his mouth full, waving his fork around for emphasis. Jan laughed and clapped her hands. Dean's blue eyes twinkled overtop of his water glass; he was mostly quiet during dinner, listening to Jared and Jan swap stories. When he did speak, he was measured, poised. His lean arms moved gracefully, as his hands carved out the meaning behind his words. Every so often, I would catch his eye from across the table and feel that strange rush of recognition.

As Jared helped Jan clear the dishes, Dean leaned forward over the table, clasping his hands together.

"So, Cara. Jared tells me you're getting your degree in management?" His voice was low, warm.

"Arts management, actually. I want to be a museum curator, or work for a gallery. I used to be a sculptor..." I trailed off.

Dean nodded, waiting for me to continue. I rushed to fill the space. "Jared tells me you're a painter! I saw your landscape in the hallway. It's very well done."

Dean leaned back in his chair. "Thank you. I've been painting a lot more since my business slowed down. I've got a studio in the basement. I'm working on a series for a show coming up in the fall."

"No way! That's so cool." I couldn't believe Jared hadn't told me. I tried to hide my bitter expression. I suddenly felt bold. "I would love to see your studio."

Dean seemed flattered. "Of course! Why don't we go right now?"

I slid from my chair and followed Dean out of the kitchen. Jan and Jared were laughing and doing a dance by the sink. They didn't notice us leaving.

Dean led me to the back of the house, down creaky stairs into the basement. The air was brushed with the smell of paint and turpentine. A cloud of woody spice trailed behind Dean. I watched his hand slide on the oak railing as we descended.

We got to the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner. He pulled the cord on a bare lightbulb, illuminating a painting in the middle of the room. I gasped.

On the canvas was a close-up portrait of a barn owl. Its huge luminous eyes sparkled black against a snowy white face. The bird looked out from the canvas with an all-knowing stare. Silent with wonder, I moved closer to the painting, bringing it into focus. Soft feathers were rendered in careful detail, hard lines etched around a razor-sharp beak. I turned to Dean. He looked down at me, and his face softened when he saw my awestruck expression.

I stammered. "This is... incredible. It's beautiful. I'm a little speechless."

He smiled and tilted his head towards me. "I really appreciate that Cara, thank you." He lifted his arm, and his hand reached out gently towards my ear.

The breath froze in my lungs. An electric current lept into the space between us. I realized how close we were standing. I could see the salt and pepper of his beard, the navy flecks in his light eyes.

His hand reached past me, motioning towards the painting "I think this part still needs a little bit of work. What do you think?"

Flustered, embarrassed at my starry-eyed moment, I spun around to face the painting. I could feel his breath on my cheek as he pointed out the section that was incomplete, a patch that was flat, blurred, lacking definition and purpose. I nodded in agreement. Dean stepped back to take in the painting as a whole. The owl's eyes kept catching mine, and under its gaze I felt the need to confess. I turned around.

"Dean," I started, "I just... I can't believe that Jared didn't tell me you were an artist. He knows that I want to be a curator, he knows I love art... I guess, not that he ever asks me about any of that, really. He tries to listen when I talk about it but I think maybe that world is boring for him. I don't know. I don't mean to complain about him. I guess I'm just... surprised, that he isn't moved by your work. That he wouldn't think to share it with me."

Dean was listening carefully. He paused for a moment, thoughtful. He spoke slowly. "Jared isn't interested in this sort of thing. Neither is Jan. They have their own world, those two. And there's nothing wrong with that. I have lots of room down here. I can paint as much as I want. I don't ask them to be different than they are."

He looked away for a moment. I thought I heard a hint of sadness in his voice. Loneliness, perhaps. He stepped a little closer to me. My heartbeat quickened.

"Cara," he continued, his gaze suddenly serious, "Jared has his own perspective on life. That doesn't mean you have to give up on what's important to you. But if you're waiting for those things to become important to Jared... Well, you could be waiting a lifetime."

I searched his face, trying to understand what he meant. It seemed like he was speaking from experience. I turned to look at the owl's face one last time. Sensitive eyes full of awareness. This owl, and its creator, saw the world in a way that Jared couldn't.

In that moment, the missing piece snapped into place. I saw my future. If I stayed with Jared, I would have to live part of my life alone in the basement. A piece of me would always go unnoticed, hidden in his blind spot.

Dean saw the conclusion settle across my face. He picked up a white cloth from the floor. With one quick movement, he billowed the sheet into the air and shrouded the owl in fabric. Then, he reached up and pulled the cord on the lightbulb. Click.

For a moment, we were silent, eyes wide in the dark. Then Dean turned and led me upstairs, back into the light.