Page 10 of Come Back to Bed
Suddenly, I remember the crazy storm and power outage we had a couple of weeks ago, a couple of hours after I’d gotten home from work. He called me immediately, and I answered saying: “I’m fine, I’m at home!” foolishly thinking he had called to check up on me, but he was calling to ask where the flashlights and LED lanterns were.
“It’s just easy for me to anticipate his needs,” I say to Anita, “and he inspires me. I’ve learned so much from him.”
“Oh, honey.” She tsk-tsks. “You’re worse off than I thought. Well, I have to make some calls. Lovely to see you.”
I refuse to apologize for this crush I have on my boss. It makes my job more fun and bearable. Except for the times when I wish he’d grab me and kiss me and he never does that—but no job is perfect. He’s a proper boss and it just makes me like him more. I have no idea why I thought of Matt McGovern again when Anita mentioned needing an anchor. I could never really like a guy like that. I might like to do very specific things with a guy like that, but nothing more.
When I let myself into the converted loft, I can hear Miles Davis on the house speakers, which means Sebastian’s in the zone, and I see my friend Tommy’s shoes by the front door, which means he’s here modelling for him. It means that this is going to be a great day because Sebastian will be in a good mood when he takes a break and I get to see my best friend whom I don’t see enough of anymore, because he lives in Brooklyn now and while I may lovebeing inBrooklyn, I hategoing toBrooklyn. I would sooner donate one of my kidneys to him than spend almost two hours of my precious free time commuting to and from his borough and my place. That’s one of the reasons why I got him this job. The other is that he’s a perfect fit for this project that Sebastian is working on.
It’s a series of mixed media paintings that bring together the urban club scene of his youth and the rural landscape that moves him now (it’s the landscape paintings that earned him the bonkers money). It’s meant to subtly convey a disconnect between these two worlds, with the human figure in distress, fractured and slightly out of focus in the foreground, the natural landscape stunning but disappearing in the background. Visually, it works on many levels, but thematically, it seems to be slowly ripping apart Sebastian’s soul for some reason. Which is why I feel so protective of him right now. He pays me for emotional support, as well as administrative.
After removing my shoes and going to the office that I share with Sebastian, I check the messages on the landline to make sure there isn’t anything urgent to attend to, then shuffle over to the studio to take a peek. The door is wide open, and I hold my breath as I watch my boss sketch Tommy on the 40x40 inch canvas that I stretched and primed for him yesterday. Sebastian isn’t classically handsome, with his slightly crooked nose from a teenage street fight (so he says), and his thin lips that are almost always pursed in contemplation. It’s the sharp steel blue eyes that grab you, take you in whole, deconstruct you, and then put you back together into something simple and beautiful in a way that only he can see. His light brown hair is just above chin length, and shaggy in the way that only a two-hundred-dollar haircut can be shaggy. It’s the most artsy-looking thing about him, other than his black-rimmed glasses. When he isn’t working, which is rarely, he looks like a really sexy cool accountant. But more importantly, he is a genius artist who works harder than anyone I know, and I’ve never known anyone so inspiring.
To be in the presence of such great talent and discipline is stimulating but also humbling. I’m grateful for it. I don’t remember the exact moment when I went from being a dreamer to a realist, but it was within a week of working for Sebastian Smith. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s how I imagine it would feel when you go to the Grand Canyon. To be in awe of something so much greater than you, but also grateful to be able to experience it in person. So many dreamers become realists when they meet their idols and realize they’re assholes. I became one when I met my idol and realized I’m not as good as he is at painting, plain and simple. But I am a lot better than him at doing almost everything else.
I manage to turn my gaze from Sebastian to my friend, who is sitting on a tall stool, slouching, dressed in a slim-fitting grey shirt and jeans. He’s posing like a sad, pensive young man. This sight is hilarious to me, because while he may be brilliant, Tommy is the most physically active and naturally upbeat person I have ever known.
“If you stand there staring any longer, I’m going to have to start charging you,” Tommy says, without moving his head, and knowing perfectly well that it wasn’t him that I’ve been staring at.
I laugh and cover my mouth.
“Oh hello there,” Sebastian says, smiling, but without looking away from the canvas. “I was wondering when you’d get here.”
“I didn’t want to disrupt your flow. I got the watercolor paper from Anita, it’s on your desk.”
“Oh great, thank you. Hey, before you get settled in, I forgot to ask you to go to that store in Chinatown to get those bamboo calligraphy brushes I like. One of each size.”
Fuck. I was so ready to hunker down at the desk. “The red sable?”
“Yeah, and the goat hair-nylon mix. To tide me over until the ones you ordered from China are delivered. I’m finding it really relaxing to play around with ink and watercolors when I need a break.”
“Sure. Anything else you can think of, before I leave?”
He finally glances over at me, and I swear his eyes light up for a second as he scans the length of me in my blouse and jeans. “Your hair is different.”
I can see Tommy grinning like the devil, and manage to ignore him as well as the humiliating flutter in my chest as I run my fingers through my hair. “I just…I just parted it on a different side today, I think.”
“It makes your features look more striking. Isn’t that interesting.” He smiles, appreciatively. “Oh, if you get the chance maybe you can pick us up some of those steamed dumplings for lunch.” He turns back to his canvas.
“I was just going to suggest that.”
“That’s why you’re the best,” he says.
“That’s why you’re my dumpling!” sings Tommy.
* * *
After returning from Chinatown, we had a quick early lunch break, then I returned calls, worked on Sebastian’s schedule for the summer, did some RSVPing, and worked on his expense report for the first quarter. It’s almost five when Sebastian comes into the office and grandly declares that I can go home for the day, now that he’s temporarily done with Tommy. His hair is really messy and his face is tense and I can tell he wants to be alone.
“Okay. Good day?”
He sighs. “Decent day. Started out good and then…” He collapses onto the sofa by his desk. “I need to look through the pictures I took yesterday. Tomorrow, when you get in, can you start on a list of venues for a gathering? I feel like throwing a party for my city friends. Nothing huge, maybe a hundred people? Not right away, maybe a couple of months from now.”
“Yeah, definitely. That’s great! Have a good night. Your updated schedule is on your iPad.”
He nods and rubs his face vigorously with his hands. “Perfect. Thank you. Good night.”
Normally, if Tommy weren’t here, he’d probably start showing me the pictures on his camera and waxing poetic about the Hudson Valley, but he just smiles at me and then reaches for the cell phone on his desk. And so, I’m dismissed.
