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The Authentic Eclectic
The Rug
She shut the door with her foot and leaned her purchase against the wall. An electric anticipation emanated from her as she lugged away the old rug and vacuumed the floor. They rolled it out together, crawling on hands and knees.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?”
He appraised the new rug. The dominant crimson background was covered with geometric shapes in jewel-toned blues and golds, outlined by white. He imagined that in her mind, it lent the living room an air of cozy grandeur: flickers of a drawing-room fireplace in winter. But the rich color made him think, with a slight nausea, of blood darkened by exposure.
“It’s very nice,” he said.
“You don’t like it?”
He knew that she’d pry until he burst out with his opinion in the most tactless manner. To avoid this, he folded at once. “It makes me feel a little funny.”
“Funny how?” Then, as though deciding not to torture herself, she said, “Oh, it doesn’t matter. I like it. And other people will like it.” She walked out of the room, humming with determination.
He sat back down on the sofa and resumed semi-watching TV, semi-reading. After a few minutes, he put down his book and stared at the rug. The shapes loomed out of the crimson ocean with a practically three-dimensional…
