Page 60 of Love Is an Art
“It can help to get your emotions out,” Miranda says. “Try it for a little bit. Maybe it will make you feel better.”
“I should paint another one to show Jurgen,” I say.
“You’re still in?” Miranda asks.
“I don’t want this to have been for nothing.”
She turns on the overhead lights and sets up an easel for me.
I get up and pick up the brush. The thought of trying to paint another disaster … Let’s just say, I respected Miranda before, but now I think she may be a goddess in human form able to conjure emotions out of paint and canvas.
I dab a blob on the canvas. A big, gray splat. I add more gray paint and make it even larger. I really hoped he’d understand. I change to violet paint and mush that color in. And then I add some red for anger. Anger at myself for being the idiot who lied and kept on lying. And anger for letting myself fall for him. The strokes seethe and churn under my brush.
He actually complimented my pathetic painting. How did Paisley ever cheat on him? Has she met some of the jerks out there?
But then again, Paisley had this very put-together, sophisticated look. We’re probably fishing in different pools. I can dress up like a lawyer, but my vibe is still less sophisticated society and more scrappy shark.
I make a gray sliver fin emerge from the roiling colors below. Now it looks like someone died in the waters below. I paint a long, horizontal line—a line I shouldn’t have crossed.
I put my brush in the can of water, which is no longer clear but a murky brown. This isn’t helping. A wave of exhaustion overtakes me.
“This piece looks good. Angry. Confused. Distraught,” Miranda says.
“I’m going to bed.” I pick up the can.
Miranda takes it from me. “I’ll wash the brushes. You go sleep.”
The next morning, at 7:30 a.m., I meet with my FLAFL client, Taylor, before I have to go into the office. I’m relieved I can focus on this and stop thinking about what I should have done—how I should have told him the truth when he picked me up at our apartment. How I wish I’d told him at the swing.
Taylor looks exhausted as we meet at a small café in Harlem, near where she’s staying on a friend’s couch. I order two coffees with milk and two quiches for us at the counter in the back while she grabs one of the small, round tables in the corner. The woman working the counter says she’ll call us up when the order is ready. One other person with a dog sits near the front, reading something on their phone. I join Taylor. Taylor is slender and muscular, but shadows linger under her brown eyes.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m worried. I’m afraid he’s selling or getting rid of all my grandma’s stuff while he’s in possession of the apartment. Mrs. Humming, the neighbor, said she saw him throwing out some stuff. It may not have value to him, but it means a lot to me.”
“I can file for a temporary restraining order. Then he can’t change the contents of the apartment until the case is decided.”
“Oh, can you? That would be great,” she says. “And then her possessions stay there, right? It’s not like I have anywhere to put them right now. My friend is being generous enough to lend me her couch.”
The barista waves that our order is ready. I pick it up and hand Taylor her coffee and quiche. I go grab some sugar packets, napkins, and utensils. Taylor sips her coffee, holding it with both hands, as I add sugar to mine and stir.
“But staying at a friend’s is okay?” I ask. She looks so tired. I had offered her my couch, but she said no.
Several construction workers come in and order. And then two women with strollers join the line. The café is filling up. There’s the hiss of the cappuccino machine and the low murmur of conversations.
“Sure. I’ve slept in far worse conditions in the army. It’s the worry. And I feel bad I wasn’t there with Grandma at the end. She always said she was fine and was going to live long enough to be a great-grandma. And I’m looking for jobs, and that’s tough. Anyway, I invited Mrs. Humming to join us because I want you to hear what she has to say. She’s willing to testify on my behalf.” Taylor checks her watch.
“Thank you for organizing that,” I say. “Should I order a coffee for her too?” Taylor nods, and I order another coffee.
Upon my return, Taylor says, “You look like you haven’t slept well either.”
And here I thought I didn’t look that bad for a sleepless night after a breakup.
“A guy I just started seeing broke up with me,” I say.He was more than a guy.A pressure builds in my chest, but I push it back down.
“I’m sorry,” Taylor says.
“It’s okay. It won’t affect my work,” I say.
