The painting

Jacob showed me one of his paintings while we were sitting on a park bench. It depicts a suited, red-haired individual standing before a house in a field of roses, their hands in their pockets and their back turned to the viewer. The sky was the purest blue.

Suddenly, I understood why he has been reticent to show his paintings lately.

It was disgusting.

I could not say why. The imagery was benign at worst. Nevertheless, there was something unnerving about it. It was the same sensation I had when I saw the suited man the other day.

 

Admittedly, the individual's turned back did make it difficult to discern whether they were one and the same as the suited man, the one whom I have found myself thinking of as "Mr. Hyde," but it seemed likely, and the possibility unsettled me.

"Who is this?" I asked, pointing at the man in the painting and trying to sound nonchalant.
"Oh, um, nobody in particular," said Jacob. "I just figured I'd show you because you've been asking to see some of my stuff, and I realize I've been acting kind of weird about it lately. So... yeah. Sorry."
"There is nothing wrong with being somewhat protective of your artwork," I said, nodding. I paused for a moment. "Jacob... do you by any chance have a particular fixation with roses? Any sort of interest in them?"
"I... I don't think I know what you mean. I mean, everyone likes roses, right?"
"Let me be frank with you," I said, "I received some roses in the mail recently and I believe they were yours."
"Roses in the mail? I didn't give you any roses. Can't speak for anyone else."
His shoulders were tense and his eyes were darting to and fro. If he was telling the truth, he was nervous for some other reason.

I do not think I understand what his motivation might have been. If he was aiming to show me his feelings, denying he gave me the bouquet would only muddle the issue. Perhaps he regretted the gesture and wanted to disavow responsibility.

However, I worry that Jacob was telling the truth. Certainly, anybody could have placed a bouquet in a mailbox, but a part of me says that it was the man I can only think of as Mr. Hyde.