Page 21 of Taking A Chance

I don’t know if she knows this or if it’s mere coincidence, but Cora does her laundry the same day, every week, at almost the same time. So, I went down to apologize. I truly wanted her to know I didn’t mean to violate any sort of boundary, even if I am slightly unaware of them. My inability to perceive one is no excuse, though. Really, I should just learn from past mistakes. It’s not like this is the first time there’s been a mix-up.

My last girlfriend, Vanessa, didn’t appreciate when I painted her while she was sick with the flu. She’d fallen asleep on the couch, representing the epitome of a frail humanity. Needless to say, she didn’t appreciate her reddened nose or the beads of sweat glistening on her forehead plastered across a large canvas.

Women, I find, have an issue with unfiltered vulnerability. More often than not, they make attempts to hide certain parts of themselves or only want to present a polished, in-control version. But that’s really only a small fraction of what makes a person, and that’s not what I want to paint. Women are beautiful in every light. I don’t care if they’re thin, thick, white, of color, old, young, blonde, freckled, pregnant, crying, or laughing. They’re something to be celebrated, worshipped even. Apparently though, they have very strict guidelines as to when and how you’re allowed to do this. I don’t like that. My goal, to wake them up to the beauty of their mess, remains.

I head back up to my apartment, taking the elevator for the short ride. I don’t know why Cora hates this thing. It seems fine to me. After stepping out onto our floor, I’m greeted by Ryan at my door.

“Dude, I’ve been knocking forever,” he says.

“Yeah, I’m not there,” I say, in true jackass fashion.

“And I called you,” he says.

“My phone is in my apartment,” I add.

“Where were you?” he asks, his attention split between my phone screen and his.

“Downstairs,” is all I say. I don’t need to get into conversation about Cora or anything that happened.

“Okay, well, we’re supposed to be leaving in like twenty minutes so hurry up,” he says.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You don’t remember agreeing to that buyer’s invitation for dinner? He’s supposed to introduce us to several friends of his—avid collectors, a.k.a potential business for us.” He’s stopped typing now and is staring straight at me as he says all this.

I open my apartment door and we step in. “Let me just get changed.” Not that I want any part of this. I don’t remember agreeing to any stuffy dinner. But if he’s here, it’s important. I guess it beats eating dinner alone at my tiny two-person kitchen table that’s shoved in the corner, or while standing and staring at the painting I now cannot finish.Damn it, Cora.

Leaving Ryan to click away on his phone, I run back to my bedroom and rummage through my closet for my navy blue suit. I don’t have time to shower, so my hair goes back in a knot and a liberal amount of deodorant and cologne are applied. I slip my father’s class ring on my right middle finger and my mother’s wedding band on my pinky—the only finger it fits. To be clear, this is her first band. She wears a new one now that my father got for her on their fortieth wedding anniversary. The one I’m wearing is much more modest, with an inlay of tiny diamonds.

She gave it to me back when I was dating a woman named Teresa, encouraging me to take the next step and give it to her. But Teresa wasn’t right for me. Or maybe I wasn’t right for her. Either way, she’s gone, and I wear it now. My mother hasn’t broached the topic of marriage in regard to anyone else I’ve dated since, and I prefer it that way.

I head back to the living room several minutes later and catch Ryan staring at Cora’s painting.

“Dude, is this who I think it is?” he asks, excitement in his voice.

“Probably,” I say, huffing out the word in frustration.

“When are you finishing?” he asks.

“I’m not. I mean, I can’t.” I sigh.

“What? What not?” he asks, cutting his eyes to me.

“She’s pissed off at me,” I admit.

“Why?” His question comes out sharp, full of surprise.

“For existing. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s why.” I shrug.

Ryan shakes his head back and forth, his look turning sympathetic. “That’s rough.”

He pats me on the back as I bend to grab my wallet and keys. Then, we’re out the door. I turn to lock it behind me and hear Ryan’s voice at my back.

“Oh, carrot cake. I’m so glad we bumped into each other again,” he says.

I turn, seeing Cora round the top of the stairs and stop in front of her door.

“Hello again. Ryan, right?” she asks him.

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