Page 133 of Painting Celia

León scuffed his feet as he walked on, rejecting idea after idea. The next corner opened into a deserted public square with an ornate bandstand, papel picado strung from it and fluttering in the chilly breeze. Mom-and-pop storefronts boasted vibrant murals and window signs in Spanish. It reminded León of home, though here the murals celebrated Mexico, not Puerto Rico or the Dominican Republic. He didn’t know where he was, but he recognized the art.

As León passed a narrow alley, a hissing of spray paint rose. It abruptly stopped as a young man crouching between the buildings looked up, startled, his tagging interrupted. León nodded and walked past, the smell of aerosol enamel trailing behind him. His pulse quickened with the urge to paint, but he quashed it with a sharp pang. He had to help Celia, not himself.

Help her with what she wants. Easy to say, but what help could he offer? It was hopeless. She already had everything, her new building in her new neighborhood—wait.

He stopped walking again, breath hanging in the air.

Her neighborhood, he understood it. He understood its art. Maybe he could go out and meet her neighbors, get them interested in Incubadora, as a sort of liaison. Maybe he could find artists to live there!

A buoyant wave of hope lifted him and he spun in the street, then loped back to that corner bar. He was overdue for a little warmth.

•••

Stepping into Incubadora the next morning, León felt the changed energy wash over him. Hammering rang out from the back alcoves, workers navigating the grand room with ladders and tools. The contrast to last night’s deserted silence was striking.

A short, well-padded Latina stood behind the front desk, a phone to her ear and papers arrayed in front of her. Did Celia have staff already? The place wasn’t even open. The woman covered the phone with a hand and leveled a questioning glance at him.

“I’m here to see Celia,” he said.

Crisply, the woman flagged down a passing crewman. “Para la jefa.”

“Sí, Dolores.” The crewman, walkie-talkie in hand, relayed, “Necesitamos la jefa, jefe.” Dolores shot León an assessing look as he rubbed sweaty palms on his jeans.

León averted his gaze, looking past the swarm of activity, then landing on the far brick wall where his paintings still hung. The glaring gap where the green and red canvases used to be felt like a blow. Mixed feelings surged in him—pride, loss, longing. Her figure, revealed in colorful facets, tightened his throat. His Celia, his muse! He ached to go back to those times, to make more paintings to fill the gaps.

No painting! Not until he could see her and not think the word “his.”

He clenched his hands, trying to anchor himself in the present cacophony of construction. This place was transforming, and, maybe, so was he.

A feminine voice bounced down the stairs. Celia! León sucked in a quiet breath as he saw her unmistakable ankles on the top step, descending. He’d know any part of her, anywhere. Another step revealed jeans, a new look for her. Then a T-shirt in—wow! Yellow! Colors, huh?

His eyes skipped over the tall man walking next to her until she turned her face to him and spoke. Suddenly the man sprang into focus; lean, muscular, dark-haired. He put a hand under her elbow, steadying her until she looked back at the stairs.

Huh.

The pair approached. Watching Celia walk into the light from the dimmer recesses was like seeing the sun rise. The vision of her slowly grew brighter, the yellow more vibrant, every part of her beautifully illuminating as she approached him. She shone, her light refilling him. He held his breath, not trusting himself to speak.

“León.” She cleared her throat, and her eyes flickered to the man beside her. “This is Carlos.”

The man reached out a dark hand, so León grudgingly accepted a firm handshake, making brief eye contact.

“If this is another delivery, I can tell you where to go.”

Huh.

“It’s not,” Celia said. “León and I…I know him.”

“Oh! Well, then, what is your priority today? How about that bed in your loft?”

León clenched his jaw.

Poised, Celia nodded at the man. Either she knew him well, or her social anxiety was better.

“I’ll get someone to finish putting it together.” he said. “Nice to meet you, León.” And back he swaggered up the stairs.

Wow, fuck Carlos.

Celia’s deep breath brought his attention back to her. Her hair was longer, he realized. Her tan had faded. Trivial details, changes made without him to witness, pierced him one by one. She had the freshness of a new butterfly, a dappled fawn. Her lips were perfect, the small cut long healed. Her coppery neck had no mark. There was no trace of him left on her.

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