Page 4 of Damaged

He’s taller and broader than all the other men here. Six-three or four. I know he’s handsome before he even turns around. It’s the silver watch on his wrist. The perfect head of thick hair that God only seems to give to the already extremely handsome.

He turns.

Usually, I’d freeze from being caught in the gaze of a man this handsome, but the gin has steadied me. Still, it doesn’t stop his bright-green eyes from attracting mine. I can see their color from twenty feet away.

He must be wearing contacts, right?

They look likeemeralds,for Pete’s sake. I’ve seen real emeralds in the back room of our auction house that shine less. He moves a lock of brown hair back in line, and I watch his sharp jaw twitch. He looks like he was hoping not to be disturbed.

Handsome as he is, I don’t feel welcome in his presence, but it’s too late. I’ve already walked in the room, and it’s just the two of us.

“Do you like this piece?” I look up at the ugly globs of paint that have been smeared on the canvas. It’s a modern monstrosity we accepted on trade because apparently the artist was blowing up.

The man’s green eyes travel across the canvas. “No. I don’t think so,” he says in a gravelly voice.

“That’s too bad. If you liked it and bought it two years ago and then sold it today, you’d have a seven-million-dollar profit.”

“I’ll be damned. What’s it a painting of?”

I step closer to him so we’re both side by side. We gaze up at the ten-by-twenty painting. “Whatever you want it to be,” I say.

“Sounds lazy on part of the artist.”

“It’s meta modern. That’s the whole appeal.” I shrug.

“What do you mean?”

“This piece is a metaphor for the modern age. It emphasizes lazy people making lazy art and a bunch of idiots with too much money gobbling it up, anyway. Because it’s the price tag that tells them it’s a masterpiece.”

“Really?” The man squints at me, seemingly surprised the art world would have this kind of self-awareness.

I shake my head. “I wish.”

“I see. So, its beauty is over our bumpkin heads?”

“It would seem.”

We both stare up at it for a moment longer. I’m a little woozy. I can feel the gin oscillating in my blood. Warm and wavy like heat shimmering in the distance. This is nice and quiet, I think.

This man is, too. Neither of us feels the need to talk, which is a nice part about art. You’re supposed to just look, even if it is stupid.

“Are you in the market?” I finally ask, breaking the silence. But really, there is nothing awkward about it. I just want to hear his deep voice again.

“I have a new apartment to furnish.”

“Oh. What are your tastes?”

“More classic than this.”

“We specialize in classics when we get art. I’m sure you noticed. There’s a reason this is on the third floor.”

“Oh. You work here?”

“Yes,” I say, realizing whatever little trance we’d had is broken. Now he’s aware he’s talking to a saleswoman. I can literally see him stiffen ever so slightly as he puts on his guard.

“But not tonight,” I add.

He looks over at me.Downat me, I should say. Even in heels, I don’t measure up much next to this man. His green eyes search me.

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