I’m not sure if Auburn believes in

I’m not sure if Auburn believes in God, but something about this painting got to her. A tear rolls down her cheek and slides slowly toward her jaw.
She hears me, or maybe she sees me stand beside her, because she brushes her cheek with the back of her hand and takes a breath. She seems embarrassed to have connected with this piece. Or maybe she’s just embarrassed that I saw her connect with it.
Instead of asking her what she thinks of the painting, or why she’s crying, I just stare at the painting with her. I’ve had this one for over a year and just yesterday decided to put it in today’s showing. I don’t usually keep them for this long, but for reasons I don’t understand, this one was harder to give up than the rest. They’re all hard to give up, but some more so than others.
Maybe I’m afraid that once they leave my hands, the paintings will be misunderstood. Unappreciated.
“That was a fast shower,” she says.
She’s trying to change the subject, even though we weren’t speaking out loud. We both know that even though we’ve been quiet, the subject for the last few minutes has been her tears and what prompted them and why do you love this piece so much, Auburn?
“I take fast showers,” I say, and realize my response is unimpressive and why am I even trying to be impressive? I turn and face her and she does the same, but not before looking down at her feet first, because she’s still embarrassed that I saw her connect with my art. I love that she looked at her feet first, because I love that she’s embarrassed. In order to be embarrassed, a person has to care about the opinions of others first.
That means she cares about my opinion, even if only a fraction. And I like that, because I obviously care about her opinion of me, or I wouldn’t be secretly hoping she doesn’t do or say anything that reminds me of Palindrome Hannah.
She spins around, slowly, and I try to think of something more impressive to say to her. It’s not enough time, though, because her eyes are back on mine and it looks like she’s hoping I’m the confident one and will be the first to speak.
I’ll speak first, although I don’t think confidence has anything to do with it.
I look down at my wrist to check the time—I’m not even wearing a watch—and I quickly scratch at a nonexistent itch so that I don’t look like I’m not confident. “We open in fifteen minutes, so I should explain how things work.”
She exhales, seeming more relieved and relaxed than she did before that sentence left my mouth. “Sounds good,” she says.
I walk to You Don’t Exist, God and I point to the confession taped to the wall. “The confessions are also the titles of the pieces. The prices are written on the back. All you do is ring up the purchase, have them fill out an information card for delivery of the painting, and attach the confession to the delivery card so I’ll know where to send it.”
She nods and stares at the confession. She wants to see it, so I take it off the wall and hand it to her. I watch as she reads the confession again before flipping the card over.
“Do you think people ever buy their own confessions?”
I know they do. I’ve had people admit to me that they’re the ones who wrote the confession. “Yes, but I prefer not to know.”
She looks at me like I’m insane, but also with fascination, so I accept it.
“Why wouldn’t you want to know?” she asks.
I shrug and her eyes drop to my shoulder and maybe linger on my neck. It makes me wonder what she’s thinking when she looks at me like this.
“You know when you hear a band on the radio and you have this vision of them in your head?” I ask her. “But then you see a picture or a video of them and it’s nothing like you assumed? Not necessarily better or worse than you imagined, just different?”
She nods in understanding.
“That’s what it’s like when I’ve finished a painting and someone tells me their confession inspired it. When I’m painting, I create a story in my head of what inspired the confession and who it came from. But when I find out that the image I had while painting doesn’t fit the actual image standing in front of me, it somehow invalidates the art for me.”
She smiles and looks at her feet again. “There’s a song called ‘Hold On’ by the band Alabama Shakes,” she says, explaining the reason behind her flushed cheeks. “I listened to that song for more than a month before I saw the video and realized the singer was a woman. Talk about a mind-fuck.”
I laugh. She understands exactly what I’m saying, and I can’t stop smiling because I know that band, and I find it hard to believe anyone would think the singer was a man. “She says her own name in the song, doesn’t she?”
She shrugs and now I’m staring at her shoulder. “I thought he was referring to someone else,” she says, still calling the singer a he even though she knows it’s a she now.
Her eyes flutter away, and she walks around me toward the counter. She’s still holding the confession in her hand, and I let her hold it.

Hasil (Bahasa Indonesia) 1:

Saya tidak yakin jika Auburn percaya kepada Jahweh, tetapi sesuatu tentang lukisan ini mendapat kepadanya. Air mata gulungan turun nya pipi dan slide perlahan-lahan menuju rahang nya.Dia mendengar aku, atau mungkin dia melihat saya berdiri di samping dia, karena ia kuas nya pipi dengan punggung tangan dan mengambil napas. Dia tampak malu untuk telah terhubung dengan bagian ini. Atau mungkin dia hanya malu bahwa aku melihatnya terhubung dengan itu.Alih-alih meminta apa dia berpikir lukisan, atau mengapa dia menangis, aku hanya menatap lukisan dengannya. Saya punya satu ini untuk lebih dari satu tahun dan baru kemarin memutuskan untuk meletakkannya di menampilkan hari ini. Saya biasanya tidak menyimpan mereka untuk ini lama, tapi untuk alasan yang saya tidak mengerti, satu ini lebih sulit untuk menyerah daripada yang lain. They're semua sulit untuk memberikan sampai, tetapi beberapa lebih daripada orang lain.Mungkin aku takut bahwa setelah mereka meninggalkan tanganku, lukisan akan disalahpahami. Tidak dihargai."Itu mandi cepat," katanya.Dia sedang mencoba untuk mengubah subjek, meskipun kita tidak berbicara keras-keras. Kita berdua tahu bahwa meskipun kita sudah tenang, subjek untuk beberapa menit terakhir telah dia menangis dan apa yang mendorong mereka dan mengapa Anda mencintai bagian ini begitu banyak, Auburn?"Aku mengambil hujan cepat," Aku berkata, dan menyadari tanggapan saya mengesankan dan mengapa saya bahkan mencoba untuk mengesankan? Aku berbalik dan menghadapi dia dan dia melakukan hal yang sama, tetapi tidak sebelum melihat ke bawah di kakinya pertama, karena dia masih memiliki malu bahwa aku melihatnya terhubung dengan seni. Saya suka bahwa dia memandang kakinya pertama, karena aku mencintai yang dia malu. Untuk menjadi malu, seseorang harus peduli tentang pendapat orang lain terlebih dahulu.Itu berarti dia peduli tentang pendapat saya, bahkan jika hanya sebagian kecil. Dan aku seperti itu, karena saya jelas peduli tentang pendapat saya, atau saya tidak akan diam-diam berharap dia tidak melakukan atau mengatakan sesuatu yang mengingatkan saya Palindrome Hannah.Ia berputar, perlahan-lahan, dan aku mencoba untuk memikirkan sesuatu yang lebih mengesankan untuk mengatakan kepadanya. Hal ini tidak cukup waktu, meskipun, karena matanya kembali pada saya dan tampak seperti ia berharap saya yang percaya diri dan akan menjadi yang pertama untuk berbicara.Aku akan berbicara pertama, meskipun saya tidak berpikir kepercayaan ada hubungannya dengan itu.Saya melihat ke bawah pada pergelangan tangan saya untuk memeriksa waktu-aku bahkan tidak mengenakan menonton- dan aku cepat menggaruk di gatal tidak ada sehingga aku tidak tampak seperti aku tidak yakin. "Kami membuka dalam lima belas menit, jadi saya harus menjelaskan bagaimana segala sesuatu bekerja."Dia mengembuskan napas tampak lebih lega dan santai daripada dia lakukan sebelum kalimat itu meninggalkan mulutku. "Kedengarannya bagus," katanya.Aku berjalan ke Anda tidak ada, Allah dan arahkan ke pengakuan yang ditempelkan pada dinding. "Pengakuan juga judul dari potongan-potongan. Harga ditulis di bagian belakang. Semua yang Anda lakukan adalah cincin pembelian, mereka mengisi informasi kartu untuk pengiriman lukisan, dan melampirkan pengakuan untuk pengiriman kartu jadi saya akan tahu di mana untuk mengirimkannya."Dia mengangguk dan menatap pengakuan. Dia ingin melihat itu, jadi aku mengambilnya dari dinding dan menyerahkannya kepadanya. Aku menonton karena dia membaca pengakuan lagi sebelum membalik kartu."Apakah Anda pikir orang pernah membeli pengakuan mereka sendiri?"Saya tahu mereka lakukan. Aku sudah orang-orang yang mengakui kepada saya bahwa mereka sedang orang-orang yang menulis pengakuan. "Ya, tapi aku lebih suka tidak tahu."Dia tampak padaku seperti aku gila, tetapi juga dengan pesona, jadi aku menerimanya."Mengapa tidak Anda ingin tahu?" Dia meminta.Aku mengangkat bahu dan matanya jatuh ke bahu saya dan mungkin berlama-lama di leher saya. Itu membuat saya bertanya-tanya apa dia berpikir ketika ia menatapku seperti ini."Kau tahu ketika Anda mendengar sebuah band di radio dan Anda memiliki visi ini dari mereka di kepala Anda?" Aku bertanya padanya. "Tapi kemudian Anda melihat gambar atau video dari mereka dan tidak seperti Anda diasumsikan? Tidak selalu lebih baik atau lebih buruk daripada yang Anda bayangkan, hanya berbeda?"Dia mengangguk dalam pemahaman.“That’s what it’s like when I’ve finished a painting and someone tells me their confession inspired it. When I’m painting, I create a story in my head of what inspired the confession and who it came from. But when I find out that the image I had while painting doesn’t fit the actual image standing in front of me, it somehow invalidates the art for me.”She smiles and looks at her feet again. “There’s a song called ‘Hold On’ by the band Alabama Shakes,” she says, explaining the reason behind her flushed cheeks. “I listened to that song for more than a month before I saw the video and realized the singer was a woman. Talk about a mind-fuck.”I laugh. She understands exactly what I’m saying, and I can’t stop smiling because I know that band, and I find it hard to believe anyone would think the singer was a man. “She says her own name in the song, doesn’t she?”She shrugs and now I’m staring at her shoulder. “I thought he was referring to someone else,” she says, still calling the singer a he even though she knows it’s a she now.Her eyes flutter away, and she walks around me toward the counter. She’s still holding the confession in her hand, and I let her hold it.