Page 28 of Love Is an Art
“There’s lots of politics in general in the artist world. Who’s hot/who’s not/who’s the reviewer who matters/which art galleries will pick up what artists.” I know that much from my sister and Miranda, but I can’t think of any details. “Since you manage the North American Fund, do you get to travel to Mexico and Canada a lot, then?”
He smiles at me. “That’s not the usual question I get.”
“What question do you usually get?”
“What do you recommend I invest in? But yes. Mexico City last week, and Toronto a few weeks ago. It’s one of my favorite parts of the job.”
“I love traveling and experiencing a different culture.”
“Same. And even though it’s work, it’s also getting to meet people in a more substantive context than as a tourist.”
I nod.
The subway stops at West 4thStreet, and several passengers get off while more come on. Two people squish in next to me, pushing me closer to Zeke. His muscular thigh touches mine. A group of friends hang on to the bar in front of us. A woman pushing a cart manages to squeeze in as the doors close. The guy next to Zeke is wearing headphones, but the music is so loud that I can hear the bass one seat over. Snippets of conversation float over—“I’d never do that” … “But he was so stressed”—as the train rumbles along the tracks.
I turn to Zeke. “What do you do to de-stress when the office politics are too much?”
He tilts his head and looks at me. “Run, or bike along the Hudson River. I play basketball in Riverside Park on weekends when I have the time. I definitely miss all the sports I played in school. Hang out with friends. The usual things.”
His eyes are this very deep blue with flecks of green. And the way he looks at me, it’s as if he’s fully focused on me.
I nod. His broad shoulders touch mine.
“You said it seemed impossible to break out as an artist,” he says. “It must be hard to know how to make it. There doesn’t appear to be a linear path.”
That’s so sweet and supportive.
“It’s definitely daunting. I work all the time, and I don’t even know if I’m going to succeed.” It’s easy to channel my feelings about my dream to work for FLAFL to answer his question because most people think I’m insane to give up my corporate legal job. “Most people would think I’m crazy for pursuing my dream.”
“Do you care what people think?” he asks.
“I seem to care more than I thought I did.” I bite my lip. “But it’s not only what strangers think. It’s me too. A good income—it’s a type of security.”When I say I’m a corporate lawyer, that garners a certain respect—a “don’t mess with me” safety.What if my careerdoesdefine me? I shake my head. “I’m not usually this tentative about my career choice.”
The subway swerves, and the people holding on to the handrail in front of us tip forward into our space. One woman apologizes.
“Thanks for taking tonight off,” he says.
“I wanted to see you again,” I say.
“Do you usually work weekends?”
“I pretty much work all the time.” I can at least be honest about that.
“Me too.”
He doesn’t seem to be ruling me out because I’m a workaholic. That’s good.
The train speeds up, and the rattling of the tracks overwhelms the low murmur of conversation in our car.
“What do you do to de-stress?” he asks.
“I hang out with friends,” I say. “And watch movies and read books.”
The subway stations zip by. We’re going under the East River now, and a cool air filters through the train.
“What’s your favorite movie?” He turns slightly to look at me.
“How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. Whenever I feel sad and want a pick-me-up, I watch it again.”
