Page 53 of Me Three
“Jesus Christ, little cabbage. One would think you’re going to war,” I say.
“One is right to think that. I am. With this painting,” they reply, and my chest hurts as I break into a laugh.
“Come on,” I tell them and show them to the spare room I’ve had converted into a studio. It’s tiny, of course, because who can’t afford a spacious three-bedroom apartment on a teacher’s salary—although New Harlow is far more affordable than Philly, and definitely a lot more than Paris.
When Tru steps in, their jaw drops and so does the carrier bag in their hands, so I rush to save it from falling flat on the floor and damaging the canvas inside.
“Did-did you make these?” they ask, turning around and looking at every painting hanging on the wall or leaning against it on the floor.
Once they’ve had a good look, they walk past every square inch of the walls and inspect them closer. Their eyes glaze over the blue painting that vibrates with all the hues of the color conceivable to the human eye before moving to the green one next to it.
I’m so distracted by their awed reaction that I forget their question.
“All mine, yes,” I say. “It’s my study on color and emotion.”
“I’ll say,” Tru marvels, their eyes still too magnetized by the contents of the room to look at me. “These are… I’m trying to find the right word. Stunning. Mind-blowing. I mean how-how?”
They finally turn to me and point at my “Playing with Fire” painting.
“Like, how can you make something so close in shade stand apart? You can tell what’s in the painting without even trying.”
I shrug. “A lot of months of trying over and over.”
“Why are you hiding these in this room? These should be out on display. Like, they should be hanging on rich people’s walls who pretend they know a thing about art.”
I walk over to them and reach for their waist with one hand, using the other one to muffle their mouth.
“Shut up. They’re not that good,” I tell them.
They shake their head full of defiance.
“You, Doc, need a reality check,” they say when they manage to escape my grip.
“Trust me, I don’t. I know what’s trendy in the art world and this isn’t it. Everyone wants human study, dark colors, capturing of emotion. This is child’s play,” I say.
It hurts a little when I say it, but I know it’s true, and it’s something I’ve accepted. Hell, I knew that going into this wild project. But after spending years painting dramatic stuff, I wanted to challenge myself and my work. Challenge the way I perceive the world and my perception of color.
“Honey, if this is child’s play then the rest of us are just fetuses so we might as well abandon ship now. I’m serious. You need to showcase these.”
They wrap their hands around my waist and pull me to their body, holding me there tight.
“You think?”
Tru nods with an exasperated look.
“And I’m not letting you go until you accept it and do something about it,” they say.
“Well, if you really think so. I do have some friends in New York,” I tell them, and they give me a kiss.
“Perfect. Do it. Now.”
“No. Now, we focus on you,” I say and look down at their bag.
“I was hoping you forgot about that.”
“Isn’t that the whole reason you came over?”
“Well, not thewholereason,” they say and wiggle their eyebrows, which makes me laugh again.
