Big Picture: Stories by Percival Everett Page A

Sumiko’s feet down to the black and white tiles. “You’ll see it.”
    Michael walked down the corridor and before he turned into the bath, he heard Sumiko whisper to Harley, “They’ve split up.” He closed the door behind him and switched on the light, nearly collapsing as he did so: everything was so bright. The room was white everywhere, white fixtures, white walls, white tile, white bidet, white towels, and even the soap in the white dish was white. He wanted to pee just to create some contrast, some relief not merely for his bladder but for his suffering eyes. He was dizzied by the brutal starkness of it all and the headache that had been at work in the back of his brain rose another notch in intensity. He imagined walking into this room and switching on the light in the middle of the night, having just come out of a sound sleep. He might have to do just that. He shuddered as he approximated the magnitude of the headache that might be caused by such a visual concussion. He flushed, washed his hands, reluctantly dried them on a stiff white towel, and went back to Harley and Sumiko in the kitchen.
    “Do you have another bathroom?” Michael asked.
    “There’s one in our bedroom,” Harley said, his big smile filled with concern. “Something wrong with the other one?”
    “No, nothing,” Michael said. “Just wondering. Your house is done very nicely.”
    “Thanks,” Harley said.
    “Taste this,” Sumiko said, coming to Harley with a spoon, her free hand cupped under it. “Be careful, now, this is hot. Blow on it first.” She blew on it for him.
    Harley blew on it too, then sucked in the soup. “That’s great.”
    “Want a taste, Michael?” Sumiko asked.
    Michael sat down at the table again. “Thanks, but I think I’ll wait.” He squinted against the pain in his head.
    “Something wrong?” Sumiko asked. “You’re squinting. Is the light hurting your eyes?”
    “Nope.”
    “Hey, man, you want to lie down before dinner?” Harley asked, sitting across the table, crossing his legs, and playing with the laces of one of his enormous boots.
    Michael shook his head.
    The doorbell rang. “That’ll be Eddie and Simon,” Harley said and left the room.
    “You’ll love these people,” Sumiko said. “Eddie’s a writer and Simon, he’s a doctor and well, you’ll see.”
    Harley came rolling into the kitchen with the guests who were laughing loudly with him. “Michael,” Harley said, “Edwina Johns and Simon Seys.”
    Simon belched out an even louder laugh. “That’s really my name,” he said to Michael. “Can you believe my parents named me that? I’m just lucky they didn’t name me Yadont.”
    Michael squeezed a smile into the chorus of guffaws. “I’m pleased to meet you,” he said.
    “I like your paintings,” Eddie said abruptly, sitting in the chair that had been Harley’s. She looked at Michael’s eyes, seeming to get too close, yet they were separated by the table. “Your paintings remind me of my work.”
    “Sumiko tells me you’re a writer,” Michael said.
    “Yes.” She was not laughing now, but looking at Michael with a serious expression.
    Michael looked to Simon. “What do you do, Simon?”
    “I’m a physician,” Simon said. “A dermatologist. I just thought I’d squeeze that in.” He laughed again and the rest laughed with him.
    “Are you two from Laramie?” Michael asked.
    “No, we’re from Denver,” Eddie said, serious once more.
    Michael’s heart sank at hearing the word Denver and the word dermatologist together. He figured that all skin doctors in Denver must know one another. Simon must know Bob and therefore, these two people, if not all four of them, were probably all too familiar with the details of Michael’s private life.
    “Where do you live?” Eddie asked, accepting the glass of wine Harley handed her, but keeping her eyes on Michael.
    “I’m kind of floating these days,” he said.
    “Floating,” Simon said and he lifted his arms