Page 135 of Painting Celia

At night, on Andrew’s couch, León would lay awake, overthinking every detail of their interactions. By day, he engaged with her neighbors, gathering goodwill and answering questions.

“Is it free there, like a museum?”

“Those artists will need a local bar. Point them my way, I’m closest.”

“They better not take up all the parking.”

At the church, Father Garcia said, “I know of a young artist. I’ll send him your way.”

•••

Heads down at the front desk, Celia startled as León bounced through the door. He was followed by a young Hispanic man, slight and shy, his eyes darting around at the noisy construction. She spied paint on the young man’s hands and felt excitement bloom. An artist!

León eagerly introduced Hector, his voice laced with that old fervor as he described the intricate murals Hector had shown him. Father Garcia had personally recommended him, a young artist full of potential but held back by limited resources. Hector blushed at the accolades.

Dolores joined them to ask Hector the necessary questions, the conversation alternating between Spanish and English for reasons only Celia wasn’t privy to. She managed to follow enough that León’s zeal became clear. Hector was a good fit! He admitted he’d need his grandmother’s approval before moving out of her home but pledged to speak with her.

“Come and fill out the application,” Dolores told him. “I will help.” She raised her eyebrows as she turned away, shooting an excited glance at Celia. This could be their first resident!

León moved to follow, but Celia stopped him with a light hand on his arm. He jumped as though burned, those big dark eyes locking on her face.

She almost forgot what she was going to say.

“Thank you,” she murmured, then cleared her throat. “Could you help convince his grandmother? He’ll know other artists, and he could spread the word about Incubadora. He could be the ambassador we need.”

Pain flickered in his eyes. “I sort of thought I was the ambassador.”

Her heart sank. What a thing to have said!

Jaw set, he moved stiffly to the front desk, and she watched him walk away. Two weeks, and he hadn’t said anything personal once. Not even a knowing glance. He was like a stranger now, not a lover who had prodded her about art and honesty and need. They must truly be over.

•••

León, dropping money on a ride-share, headed to Incubadora in the early morning to meet Hector. It was too cold and too early to suffer on what they called public transit around here.

He entered to look for Hector, scanning the room for Celia as always, and finally saw her in the back corner, scrubbing on her hands and knees. The smell of solvent drifted to him. She was getting paint off the floor.

He flashed instantly back to the studio room in her house, seeing the bend of her bare knee as she wiped up a drip of paint. He could feel a brush in his fingers, smell the wet colors on a canvas in front of him, and savor Celia, delightful Celia, real and glowing and warm in front of him.

He could go help her. She shouldn’t have to do that herself, she had other work. She was too good to clean up stupid paint.

He looked away forcefully, closing his eyes.

A tap on his shoulder startled him, and he turned to see Hector, face morose.

“Abuela contestó. No.”

His grandmother wouldn’t let him come? What a world this could be if the women would just let them paint.

León squared his shoulders. “Can I talk to her? Will she come here?”

“She might come,” Hector said. “But what can you say? I’ve explained already.” His thin frame was slumped, seeing opportunity slip away.

León pursed his lips. “What would help get her to agree?”

“She thinks art is okay, but having a job is more important.”

“Making art is a job. Two weeks ago I sold paintings for five thousand dollars.”

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