Big Picture: Stories by Percival Everett

was washed lavender at sundown.
    At the door of the sizable, but modest house, Michael was met by Sumiko who was as small as Harley was large. Her smile was no less brutish or feral, in fact it was even more savage, coming like an ambush from this little creature.
    “It’s great to see you,” Sumiko said, as her little feet somehow got her behind him. She pushed him into the house, into the vestibule floored with tiles that had been carved by hand, a fish here, a primitive bison there. Michael felt the unevenness of the floor through his shoes. He put down his suitcase.
    “It’s good to see you, too, Sumiko.”
    “Harley’s not back yet. He’s at the chiropractor. He’s got a bad back. You know, all that lifting.”
    Michael nodded.
    “Come on into the kitchen,” Sumiko said. “You can keep me company while I finish dinner. This is great.”
    He followed Sumiko through the living room, walking past one of his early paintings. He realized that he had made it, but didn’t know how he could have.
    “We move that piece around the house,” Sumiko said. “I liked it when you used more form.”
    Michael smiled and hoped she heard.
    In the kitchen, Michael found the light white and harsh, discharging from broad panels implanted in the ceiling and ricocheting mercilessly off stainless steel cabinets, stove, and refrigerator.
    “What do you think of our new kitchen?” she asked.
    “It’s very … metal,” Michael said.
    “We like to think so.” Sumiko walked to the stove and looked into something she had simmering on a burner. “Sit down, sit down.”
    Michael sat at the table and watched her tiny feet carry her from refrigerator to stove to cabinet to refrigerator as she tied on a little apron. “How about some wine?” she asked, suddenly.
    “I don’t drink.”
    “I remember not liking that about you.” She laughed. “May I get you anything to drink? Juice?”
    “I’m okay right now,” Michael said.
    Sumiko took a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and poured a glass for herself. “A little wine never hurt anybody, Michael.”
    Michael nodded.
    “So, how’s Gail?”
    “I think she’s well,” he said.
    Sumiko looked at him over the rim of her wine glass. “You think?”
    “We’re trying out a separation.”
    “Here’s to a successful one,” Sumiko said, raising her glass, then taking a sip. “I never liked her anyway. She’s not strong enough for you.”
    “What’s in the pot?” Michael asked.
    “Oh, it’s cream of eggplant soup.” She rose to her toes to catch a glimpse of the activity in the pot. “It’s the first time I’ve made it. You’re a guinea pig, I guess.”
    “I’m willing,” he said.
    Then Sumiko’s face changed, she sighed, and her eyes, although not really softening, showed that they wanted to soften, and she walked to Michael and touched his face. “I’m so sorry. Poor, poor Michael,” she said, sitting at the table with him. “But isn’t this great? Sitting here, together and all.”
    Michael nodded.
    Harley came in through the front door, and said with his booming, smiling voice, “Some fool left a fortune of camping gear outside free for the taking.”
    Michael stood up as Harley entered the kitchen. “Maybe that’s not a good idea,” he said.
    “Oh, don’t worry,” Harley said. “This is Laramie, not Denver.”
    Michael sat back down.
    Sumiko handed a glass of wine to Harley. “What did he say about your back?”
    “Well, he cracked it this way and he cracked it that way,” Harley said, twisting his body to indicate the treatment. “Then he stretched me and told me not to pick up anything heavy. I laughed in his face. I had half a mind to pick him up and laugh right into his face. Like this.” He grabbed Sumiko by her waist and she squealed and then he hoisted her to eye level and laughed right in her face and then they laughed together.
    “Where’s your bathroom?” Michael asked.
    “Down the hall,” Harley said, letting