I glance over my shoulder to the en

I glance over my shoulder to the end of the street and look at my studio. I don’t know why the thought to show her even crosses my mind, because I’ve never shared the confessions with anyone.
But she isn’t just anyone.
When I look at her again, her eyes are hopeful. “I can show you some,” I say.
Her smile widens with my words, and she immediately stops heading in the direction of her apartment in favor of my studio.


Once upstairs, I open the door and let her cross the threshold that has, up to this point, only been crossed by me. This is the room I paint in. This is the room I keep the confessions in. This is the room that is the most private part of me. In a way, I guess you could say this room holds my confession.
There are several paintings in here I’ve never shown anyone. Paintings that will never see the light of day—like the one she’s looking at right now.
She touches the canvas and runs her fingers over the face of the man in the picture. She traces his eyes, his nose, his lips. “This isn’t a confession,” she says, reading the piece of paper attached to it. She glances at me. “Who is this?”
I walk to where she is and stare at the picture with her. “My father.”
She gasps quietly, running her fingers over the words written on the slip of paper. “What does Nothing but Blues mean?”


Her fingers are now trailing over the sharp white lines in the painting and I wonder if anyone has ever told her that artists don’t like it when you touch their paintings.
That’s not true in this case, because I want to watch her touch every single one of them. I love how she can’t seem to look at one without feeling it with both her eyes and her hands. She looks up at me expectantly, waiting for me to explain what the title of this one means.
“It means nothing but lies.” I walk away before she can see the expression on my face. I lift the three boxes I keep in the corner and take them to the center of the room. I take a seat on the concrete floor and motion for her to do the same.
She sits cross-legged in front of me with the boxes stacked between us. I take the two smaller boxes off the top and set them aside, then open the lid on the larger box. She peeks inside and shoves her hand into the pile of confessions, pulling out a random one. She reads it out loud.
“ ‘I’ve lost over one hundred pounds in the past year. Everyone thinks it’s because I’ve discovered a new healthy way of living, but really it’s because I suffer from depression and anxiety and I don’t want anyone to know.’  ”
She places the confession back in the box and grabs another. “Will you ever use any of these for paintings? Is that why you keep them in here?”
I shake my head. “This is where I keep the ones I’ve seen in one form or another before. People’s secrets are a lot alike, surprisingly.”
She reads another. “ ‘I hate animals. Sometimes when my husband brings home a new puppy for our children, I’ll wait a few days and then drop it off miles from our house. Then I pretend it ran away.’  ”
She frowns at that confession.
“Jesus,” she says, picking up several more. “How do you retain faith in humanity after reading these every day?”
“Easy,” I say. “It actually makes me appreciate people more, knowing we all have this amazing ability to put on a front. Especially to those closest to us.”
She stops reading the confession in her hands and her eyes meet mine. “You’re amazed that people can lie so well?”
I shake my head. “No. Just relieved to know that everyone does it. Makes me feel like maybe my life isn’t as fucked up as I thought it was.”
She regards me with a quiet smile and continues sifting through the box. I watch her. Some of the confessions make her laugh. Some make her frown. Some make her wish she’d never read them.
“What’s the worst one you’ve ever received?”
I knew this was coming. I almost wish I had lied to her and said I throw a lot of them away, but instead I point to the smaller box. She leans forward and touches it, but she doesn’t pull it toward her.
“What’s in here?”
“The confessions I never want to read again.”

Hasil (Bahasa Indonesia) 1:

Aku melirik bahu saya ke ujung jalan dan melihat studio saya. Aku tidak tahu mengapa pikiran untuk menunjukkan bahkan melintasi pikiran saya, karena saya sudah pernah berbagi pengakuan dengan siapa pun.Tapi dia tidak sembarang orang.Ketika saya melihat dia lagi, matanya penuh harapan. "Aku bisa menunjukkan Anda beberapa," kataku.Senyumnya melebar dengan kata-kata saya, dan dia segera berhenti menuju arah apartmennya mendukung studio saya.Setelah di lantai atas, saya membuka pintu dan membiarkan dia dapat melintasi ambang yang memiliki, sampai saat ini, hanya telah menyeberangi oleh saya. Ini adalah tempat saya melukis di. Ini adalah tempat aku menyimpan pengakuan dalam. Ini adalah ruangan yang adalah bagian yang paling pribadi saya. Dengan cara, saya kira Anda bisa mengatakan kamar ini memuat pengakuan saya.Ada beberapa lukisan di sini aku sudah pernah menunjukkan siapa pun. Lukisan yang tidak akan pernah melihat cahaya hari — seperti dia melihat sekarang.Dia menyentuh kanvas dan menjalankan jari-jarinya di wajah manusia dalam gambar. Dia jejak matanya, hidung, bibir. "Ini bukan pengakuan," katanya, membaca selembar kertas yang melekat padanya. Dia pandang saya. "Siapa ini?"Aku berjalan ke mana ia dan menatap gambar dengannya. "Ayahku."Dia terengah-engah diam-diam, menjalankan jari-jarinya atas kata-kata yang ditulis pada secarik kertas. "Apa tidak apa-apa tapi berarti Blues?"Jari-jarinya sekarang trailing atas garis-garis putih tajam dalam lukisan dan aku bertanya-tanya jika ada telah pernah mengatakan kepadanya bahwa seniman tidak seperti itu ketika Anda menyentuh mereka.Itu tidak benar dalam hal ini, karena saya ingin mengawasi menyentuh setiap satu dari mereka. Saya suka bagaimana dia tidak bisa melihat satu tanpa perasaan itu dengan kedua matanya dan tangannya. Dia menatapku Pasal, menunggu saya untuk menjelaskan apa judul yang satu ini berarti."Itu berarti apa-apa tetapi kebohongan." Aku berjalan pergi sebelum dia bisa melihat ekspresi di wajah saya. Aku mengangkat tiga kotak saya tetap di sudut dan membawa mereka ke tengah ruangan. Aku mengambil tempat duduk di lantai beton dan gerak baginya untuk melakukan hal yang sama.Dia duduk bersila di depan saya dengan kotak-kotak yang ditumpuk antara kami. Aku mengambil dua kotak yang lebih kecil dari atas dan meletakkannya ke samping, kemudian membuka tutup di kotak yang lebih besar. Dia mengintip di dalam dan menyodorkan tangannya ke dalam tumpukan pengakuan, menarik keluar yang acak. Dia membaca keras-keras."' Aku sudah kehilangan lebih dari seratus pound dalam satu tahun terakhir. Semua orang berpikir bahwa karena saya telah menemukan cara baru yang sehat hidup, tapi benar-benar karena saya menderita depresi dan kecemasan dan saya tidak ingin orang lain mengetahuinya.' ”Dia tempat pengakuan kembali dalam kotak dan meraih lain. "Akan Anda pernah menggunakan salah satu untuk lukisan? Apakah itu mengapa Anda menjaga mereka di sini?"Aku menggelengkan kepala. "Ini adalah tempat aku menyimpan yang pernah kulihat dalam satu bentuk atau lain sebelum. Rahasia orang banyak turis, mengejutkan.Dia membaca lain. "' Aku benci binatang. Kadang-kadang ketika suami saya membawa pulang anak anjing baru untuk anak-anak kami, aku akan menunggu beberapa hari dan kemudian menjatuhkannya off miles dari rumah kami. Kemudian aku berpura-pura itu lari.' ”She frowns at that confession.“Jesus,” she says, picking up several more. “How do you retain faith in humanity after reading these every day?”“Easy,” I say. “It actually makes me appreciate people more, knowing we all have this amazing ability to put on a front. Especially to those closest to us.”She stops reading the confession in her hands and her eyes meet mine. “You’re amazed that people can lie so well?”I shake my head. “No. Just relieved to know that everyone does it. Makes me feel like maybe my life isn’t as fucked up as I thought it was.”She regards me with a quiet smile and continues sifting through the box. I watch her. Some of the confessions make her laugh. Some make her frown. Some make her wish she’d never read them.“What’s the worst one you’ve ever received?”I knew this was coming. I almost wish I had lied to her and said I throw a lot of them away, but instead I point to the smaller box. She leans forward and touches it, but she doesn’t pull it toward her.“What’s in here?”“The confessions I never want to read again.”