Page 67 of Alone With You in the Ether

Regan eyed the painting from her father’s office, replaying the mechanisms of its conception. She’d stayed up all night working on it, then spent days perfecting it when she got home, then stared at it for hours upon conclusion. The brushstrokes were precisely the artist’s, not hers. It was thievery in every possible aspect of its creation. She had left nothing of herself in its reproduction, merely cloning the vacant starvation that had existed there before, and then she’d done the same another dozen times; proving to herself that, at very least, she could still see, she could still think, she could still interpret.

But that wasn’t enough, and she knew it. Art, a voice buzzed in her ear, was creation. It was dissecting a piece of herself and leaving it out for consumption, for speculation. For the possibility of misinterpretation and the inevitability of judgment. For the abandonment of fear the reward would have to be the possibility of ruin, and that was the inherent sacrifice. That, her mind whispered, was art, and she slid her finger along the edge of the storage room key, the jagged edges like teeth scraping over her skin. You and me, you-and-me, you and me, my heart will burn a hole through my chest until I know, and I am not done, I can’t be done yet, this cannot be the ending.

Which was when she’d picked up the phone, choosing the contact that read, ‘For When You’ve Found It,’ and dialed Rinaldo Damiani.

She was at his door witha sketchbook and pencils, dressed in a boxy grey sweater and jeans. She was wearing her garnet earrings, he noted, but had foregone any other details. She looked determined, almost defiant, when she opened her mouth and said, still fidgeting, “I want to be clear. This is just me drawing you, nothing else.”

“Okay,” he said, and beckoned her inside.

His apartment had track lighting, a consequence of the owner’s tastes. Upon entry, Regan began traversing the apartment, turning lights on, turning them off. “Do you have something to—?”

She gestured and he nodded, handing her the stepstool that had been tucked into the corner of the kitchen. She clambered on top of it, angling the bulbs.

“Careful with the—”

“They’re not hot yet,” she assured him briskly, then pointed for him to stand by the window. “Wait over there,” she said, and then, “I’ll adjust you in a sec.”

He obliged, positioning himself beside the window as she’d asked, and she frowned at nothing, arranging the empty space inside her head.

“Okay,” she said, and then frowned again, at him this time. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

It was his usual t-shirt and black jeans.

“I’m currently wearing it, yes,” he said. “Conceptually, no. I could change.”

Her frown transitioned from thoughtful to hesitant.

“Can I…?” she asked, gesturing vaguely to his closet.

“You’re the artist,” he said, beckoning for her to go ahead.

She turned, rifling through his wardrobe, which was sparse to say the least. He watched her, noting her look of uncertainty, and cleared his throat.

“How have you been?” he attempted.

“Fine,” she said. She paused, biting something back, and then turned over her shoulder to look at him. “I’m still with Marc,” she said.

“Right,” he said.

“Nothing’s new, really.”

He inadvertently made a low sound, something like a coughed-up laugh, and she turned sharply.

“What?” she demanded.

“Obviously something’s new,” he said, and amended, “Or, I don’t know. Everything is.”

“Something, or everything?”

“You tell me.”

“Nothing’s changed.”

“Something’s changed,” he countered, and she spun back to his closet, directing her attention somewhere else, to the space between hangers.

“I’m painting again,” she said, eyeing his shirts.

“But you wanted to draw me?”

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