Page 18 of The Artist's Rival

“But it’s so much more than that. I don’t like her approach to art. I don’t like her style. We argued horribly the first time we met, and then hooked up during her exhibition opening,” Tatiana finally spits out the string of events plaguing her mind.

He exhales loudly, taking in all the unexpected information.

“You… hooked up during her vernissage?” He laughs a bit.

“Yes, but you don’t get it. She has such a calm demeanor, when we’re not arguing at least, her art is so delicate, but then—” Tatiana blushes, only slightly, “She’s insane at sex.”

Marcel laughs, heartily.

“So what do you feel like you want to do? Why not just forget about the whole affair, if it upsets you so much you need to go swimming? Or you just want more of the insane sex? Because that is ok, you know?”

Tatiana pouts her lips. She doesn’t know.

“There’s something that stirs me in her, like I haven’t been this mad about art for a long time. And then… I’m painting this thing now, and it’s so pathetically, clearly influenced by her.”

Marcel pats her back, shaking his head.

“Girl, you’re down so bad!”

“No, stop it.” She waves her hand around.

They finally get up and stroll towards the car, regretful to not be able to walk home on foot.

“Someday, someday they’ll finish this bloody road,” Marcel chants as they climb up the hill towards the parking lot.

“Someday they will,” Tatiana nods, grateful to have friends who get aggravated at road construction because of the desire to walk under the stars. Tired, they don’t speak much on their way back, listening to whatever the radio host chooses to play.

And I do want more of the insane sex.

I can still feel her inside me and I like it.

8

ELLIE

Ellie stares at the waterfall, mad to have decided to continue it either way. The bubbling water springs down, cascading into the lake below. The hills bend over the phenomenon in a manner she finds mocking. As if the hills were bent over her, looking straight into the pits of her artistic soul, looking for substance. She feels empty, bendable like a straw of grass exposed to barely any wind. How come it takes so little for her delicate touch to turn into something violent?

She wipes her hands clean and decides to order dinner in. Afternoon has turned to evening, and she can see the windows of nearby apartments light up. She has always liked to spy on people through their windows, observing their kitchens or living rooms—the scenes of their rituals. Little figures dancing around, preparing dinner or taking their shoes off, coming home from work. As a student, she painted a project meant to imagine her as a little figure stared at from someone else’s perspective. Back then she lived in a little, square studio apartment, and the series of four paintings included the four corners of her room; Ellie cooking soup on her little portable gas stove, Ellie reading a book on her miniature bed, Ellie putting on her socks next to the pile of clothing substituting a wardrobe, and Ellie at her canvas, despairing over some project.

She smiles, thinking it over, a little upset that she has no idea where the paintings went. The delivery man rings the doorbell with urgency, stirring her out of the river of thoughts.

“Thank you, have a good evening,” she says at the door, impatient to eat.

The clouds of steam from the noodles explode in her face, the carton box almost burning her hands. She sits down on the floor, far away from any painting, afraid to grease or stain something of value. The thick strings of noodles slide around her mouth, delicious.

Suddenly, her phone rings. She curses herself for the lack of napkins, having already used the ones provided, and grabs the phone awkwardly, knowing that an unknown number could mean something particularly important.

“Yes?” she utters, right after swallowing.

“Is this Ellie Matthews?” a low-pitched, male voice inquires.

“Yes, speaking.”

“This is George Kirsch calling, from the Kirsch Gallery of Art, I had the honor to see your recent exhibition, and decided to reach out with an, I hope, interesting offer.”

Ellie sits completely still. She knows the Kirsch Gallery, now managed and curated by Samuel Kirsch’s son, George.

“Of course, I’m listening,” she assures, intrigued.

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