The Last Interview

Elias adjusted the beret he'd worn through three marriages and countless gallery openings. The hat smelled of turpentine and expensive cologne, a scent that had once made Margot weak in the knees. Now it just made her tired.

"You're not going to ask about the bear?" Elias asked, his voice thin as parchment.

Margot set up her camera, avoiding his eyes. The article was due tomorrow. Her editor wanted reflections on a lifetime of masterpieces, not stories from that summer in the Rockies when a grizzly had nearly taken off Elias's left arm. He'd claimed the encounter changed him as an artist. Margot knew it had just given him a good story and a scar he liked to show at dinner parties.

"What's it matter now?" she said.

His golden retriever, Buster, wheezed from the rug. The dog was sixteen, arthritic and mostly blind, but Elias refused to discuss euthanasia. He'd already lost his wife, his eyesight, and most of his dignity. The dog was the only thing that still needed him.

Elias fumbled with the pill sorter on the table. His hands shook. "Help me with these damn vitamins."

Margot crossed the room and tipped the capsules into his palm. Her fingers brushed his skin—papery dry, spotted with age. She remembered those hands gripping her hips in a studio in Paris, how they'd felt strong and urgent then. Now they just trembled.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he said suddenly.

"Do what?"

"Write about me like I'm already dead."

Margot's chest tightened. She'd left him seven years ago when his drinking had become more important than their marriage. Now he was dying, and she'd come back to document his decline like it was just another assignment.

The bear had nearly killed him in the prime of life. Time was finishing the job more slowly.

"I'm not writing your obituary, Elias," she said. "I'm writing about your work."

He laughed, a dry rattle. "My work is dead. The only thing I made that lasted was leaving you."

Buster struggled to his feet and shuffled to Elias, resting his graying muzzle on the artist's knee. Elias's hand found the dog's head automatically, his touch gentle despite his tremor.

Margot raised her camera. Some stories were too complex for words. Some losses never quite resolved into coherence. She'd write about the bear, the hat, the pills, the loyal dog. She'd write about the way his hands had touched her once, and the way they touched the dog now.

She pressed the shutter.