Page 52 of I Love My Mistake

He nods, turns and lets go of my hands, stepping away to the edge of the sidewalk to raise his arm to traffic. His profile is strong and beautiful. I want to trace his nose with my finger and I’m jealous of the light from the lamppost for beating me to it. My gaze drifts to the cab approaching and it occurs to me that if my cabbie friend is driving it, I will be convinced that angels planned this entire night. The headlights block my vision, and I lean forward in anticipation. But when the cab stops in front of us, it’s not him. It’s just a normal apathetic cabbie who’d rather be anywhere but here.

Maybe I can believe it, anyway.

Mark holds the door open. “What’s making you smile?”

“Nothing,” I lie.

He slides in after me and doesn’t pry. I tell the driver my address and Mark reaches over and takes my hand again. “Give me that.”

I laugh and look at my hand nestling back into his. “This is all very weird.” I look out the window and get silent.

He squeezes my hand. “Hey. Don’t disappear.”

I laugh nervously, glancing over to him. “You see everything, don’t you?”

“Is it annoying?”

“No… I like it.”

“Good. Because I’m not meaning to do it. I feel like I know you.”

“You do? For me, it’s that it’s weird because it doesn’t feel weird… and yet it does.” I laugh. “Forget I said that.”

“I promise you I won’t.”

“Suit yourself,” I tease, and look back out the window until we drive onto my street.

“It’s on the right. You can park in front of that white car right there.” The driver nods.

As Mark pays for the cab, I say, “Okay, before we go in… my living room is my studio and I do not hold back when I paint, so it’s pretty much the opposite of some squeaky-clean, organized room you could photograph for a magazine.”

“I’ve been warned.”

He opens the door and gets out, holds his hand out for me to grab onto. I use its sturdiness to balance me as I climb out, worried what he’s going to think of my home. As we walk to the door, I spin back around, my finger in the air. “And I have dust-bunnies in the corners. I am not tidy.”

He smiles, very amused. “Got it.”

I turn to open the door, but spin around one more time, my palm out. “And I really need to go to the grocery store, so all I have is wine and water.”

“Thank God you’re telling me this.”

His flat delivery sends me over the edge into laughing. I open the door and we go in. But in the elevator, I announce, “I do have a very clean bathroom!”

“What a relief.”

More laughter from me, but still I mumble as I unlock my door, “I really wish I’d gone to the grocery store. This is embarrassing. Okay, here we go!”

He steps in after me and looks around the room I spend most of my waking hours in. He points to the piles of unframed painted canvasses. I nod, crossing my arms protectively around myself, taking in a deep breath of courage. I walk to stand against a wall for support. As I watch him begin to look through my paintings, for the first time in months I desperately want a cigarette. Do I have one hidden somewhere? Is there an old pack in a jacket in my closet, maybe? Where’s the nearest newspaper-stand? I could just tell him to wait while I go buy some…

“Wow.” Mark whispers a few times. My heart is hammering fast. Then he freezes. “Oh my God.”

“What? What?!”

“Nicole. This painting. I had a dream about this painting.”

I stare at him, stunned. “What?”

He looks over to me and turns around the painting that means the most to me. It’s the first piece I painted after my wall broke down, the first one I painted here that night I feel asleep on the floor. I frown at him, confused. He looks at it again in disbelief, then back to me. “I swear to you, I dreamt this image right before I came here to New York. Not this visit. The last one…a little over a month ago?”

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