Page 89 of Caper Crush
He turns off the light. The outside streetlight caresses the chairs and the couch.
Our glances meet in the dim lighting. And that electricity pulses between us. I’m not the only one who feels it. But I will behave. As I shift slightly, the pain pulses up. I grimace. I really am in no shape to be thinking about seduction.
Chapter twenty
Withmucheffort,afew rest stops, and a lot of leaning on William, we make it up the stairs to my apartment. I sink into a chair near our windows. My reflection greets me in the glass panes.
He studies my paintings on the wall. “These are really good. I’ve only seenPlaying Around 1:30andHigh Tide 4:30in person.”
“Thank you. They’re getting better.”
“They’re much more complex than I realized. Not just poppy, happy colors. But like this one, it gives this exuberant feeling, but this corner here feels sad where you have the darker colors and a mix of heavy and light brushstrokes. What’s it called?”
“Self-portrait 2:30 p.m.”
“Oh.”
“That’s what I was aiming for,” I say. “I’m glad to know it worked.”
“Why were you sad?”
“I wasn’t getting anywhere in my art career. Another art gallery had just rejected me. I was beginning to doubt whether I’d ever make it.” I pull over another chair and gingerly put my foot up on it. “And I don’t want to be some frustrated, bitter person.”
“I can’t see that happening to you.”
“Yeah, I don’t think it will happen to me. But I’ve met some. It’s not pretty.”
“I know. It’s hard starting your own business.” He pulls out a chair to sit next to me. “You usually come across as pretty confident.”
“Artists are a weird mix. Just to be an artist, you have to have some confidence because the path to success is not necessarily clearly defined. I have to think I’m talented enough that I can make it. But there’s so much rejection that you get a lot of self-doubt. I started with this arrogant, I’m-good attitude, thinking gallery owners would immediately pick up my paintings. That didn’t happen. My attitude has definitely been tempered. But it’s still there.” I smile at William.
Now he’s staring atOff-Limits.How am I going to explain that one?
“Did you paint this one after the concert on Thursday?” He glances at me and smiles.
“Yes.” I date my paintings.
“Should I get us some water to drink?” He picks up ourI’m an accountant, not a magicianmug. “Why do you have this?”
I laugh. “We bought that because of our accountant, Stewart. When he came over to discuss our taxes, we served him water in that. You should use it. Should we order in from Harry’s Burritos? My treat. What do you want?” I place our order and pay for it over the phone. “It will be ready for pickup in ten minutes.”
William sits at the table, hands me a glass of cold ice water, and sips from our accountant mug. I drink half of my glass.
He asks me about another piece, and I explain my process of translating emotions into art. For one, I took a newspaper clipping that saidStopand glued it to the canvas, then painted around it and slightly over it.
“Why stop? Not stop creating?”
“The opposite. Stop doubting yourself, stop second-guessing, stop all the negative thoughts,” I say.
“I agree. I know you think you need to find this painting or you’ve lost your shot, but you’re so obviously talented, this isn’t going to be your only chance.”
He gazes at me intently. He’s so certain, I am envious.
“It’s taken me so long to even get to this point that I don’t know. I paintedPlaying Aroundfive years ago. And I had one great review. But then nothing. I mean, a few shows here and there, but mostly nothing.”
“Don’t you feel yourself getting better?” he asks.
“I do,” I say. “Can you see that in my paintings?”
