Page 11 of Paint Me Love
Speaking of murals, I guess I haven’t seen the last one, so I might as well.
I circle back to the stairs and stand in front of the painted wall, looking at it for the first time despite walking by it on multiple occasions already. At first, I can’t figure out what it depicts, but then the colors start to pop. In the middle of the canvas, dark, muted tones make up a lone figure of a man, while the rest of the space is dominated by a bright, colorful cityscape.
Something in me snaps. I can’t breathe. A shiver racks down my spine, raising my hackles and making my heart beat as if I’m about to plunge myself off a cliff to the bottom of the sea. I’m drowning and I’m soaring at the same time, two opposing forces warring within me as my eyes drink in the sad yet hopeful image.
‘Ambition I’ the plaque says where it’s positioned next to the artist’s signature. That’s what the four pieces in my gallery depict, each one a subjective take on the word. I don’t remember the other three, save for a vague impression of trees and people, but this one knocks the breath out of me. It speaks to me. I don’t know why and I don’t know how—art is an elusive thing when done properly that one time in a million—but it hijacks my senses and ability to think, the colors and the smell of fresh paint and the little bumps under my fingers when I reach out to touch it an experience like no other.
I inhale sharply, my skin tingling all over as my eyes keep feasting on this artist’s interpretation. Ambition. It’s a concept that’s more layered than one might assume going off the word’s definition, a journey that one either chooses to follow and see through or gives up without even realizing that they have. The figure before me, the man in shadows with his clenched fists and his rigid posture is clearly the former—a person in the midst of this difficult journey.
It hits me in the chest, his isolation, his lonely existence among that rich palette of color, the vibrancy excruciatingly hopeful yet so heartbreakingly out of reach for him. It’s something he can’t have unless he gives up his path, but that’s not really an option without losing himself.
So he’s stuck there. Alone, with no one by his side. He’s a black sheep, he repels all the good and happy things so they don’t distract him from his objective.
I stumble back a few steps, my head spinning. Who painted this? Who did this to me? Why? This is too much, too deep and too raw. I’m suffocating.
Head spinning and breaths coming in too quick, I just stand there.It’s fine, Derek. Just ride it out. Itwill pass, anytime now, this momentary lapse of sanity. I feel so lost, so exposed,like someone has looked deep inside me and seen all those dark things I’m trying to hide.
I hate it.
A minute passes, but even after my breathing normalizes, every part of my body is still tense. My thoughts are jumbled, my mind is still trying to rationalize my reaction, why my entire being responded so to this stupid painted wall.
Why do I feel so exposed? Is it the loneliness of the man? The sacrifice, the level of removal he has from what’s around him? Or is it the hopefulness that is still there, even if he might never reach it?
“Mr. Salinger?” a woman’s voice cuts through my moment of epiphany, shattering it like a glass pitcher hitting the floor. “Is everything okay?”
The world around me regains its sharpness as I am transported back to it, my senses no longer hostage to the painting, yet missing that captivity as if it’s exactly where I was meant to be. With more effort that I normally exert, I school myself into properness and turn to face the intruder who inadvertedly robbed me of something, of this new and novel feeling that I can’t even comprehend. It’s Cassandra.
It is, yes. I was just having a look around thegallery.That’s what I should say, but the words don’t come out. Instead, I blurt out, “Who painted this?”
She shifts her gaze from me to the mural, a pleased expression sliding across her face. “One of the artists from the competition.”
I let myself roll my eyes, even if I never do that. “Which one?”
She looks at me as if she is contemplating something and then shrugs as if she’s not sure what the point of my question is. She’s wrong. I need to know, to find out who painted this, who touched my soul and exposed it without permission.
“Daniel Marcello,” she says.
Daniel Marcello. Is it him?My artist.It has to be. The technique, the style, they could only be his. Frantically, I pull out my phone and open the unread message from my artist. A photo of this very mural loads up on my screen, beautiful and soul-haunting.
It’s him. Of course, it is. The moment I met him on that app, I knew that he would change my life. I can’t breathe, I want to scream. What am I going to do now? I was flirting with the idea of letting him go, of letting our chats die down naturally so we could drift apart. It’s the only way to keep myself from obsessing over him and what his reaction might be if I revealed my identity.
But now it’s too late. The cat’s out of the bag. I’ve seen his mural and it has touched something in me like nothing ever could. It’s crazy, and so is the urge to see him that settles into my bones.
“I want to see more of his works,” I blurt out.
Cassandra’s look tells me how unusual my request is. I don’t blame her—I have no interest in art or in this gallery or in most anything. But after seeing this painting, I just can’t stop this full-body hum that now inhabits me, this craving in my soul, this strange thrill telling me that maybe I am not as hollow as I thought I was.
7
Daniel
I’mextratiredthenext morning as I clock in for my shift at the supermarket. Having to stay an extra two hours at the shipping warehouse really messed up my sleep, but on the flip side, that’s some extra cash I can add to this month’s earnings.
Even with a second cup of coffee, the day drags. Everything takes extra effort. Still, I don’t miss that we need to order extra chocolate cereal, or that we have some ham about to run past its best-before date. I mark the items for a discount and update the system.
Just as I hand the box to one of the other employees so they can put the ham on the shelves, my phone rings. Fishing it out of my pocket, I wonder who it might be. Molly knows my work hours, so it’s not her. Scam call or a salesman then. I guess I’m hanging up.
It turns out it’s neither, and instead of an unknown or hidden number, Cassandra’s name is flashing on my screen.Why is Salinger Gallery’s manager calling me?
