Page 6 of Paint Me Love
Oh, Daniel, stop obsessing over another man’s dick. You’ll likely never see it, too!
I shake my head and clap my cheeks, chasing away the horny thoughts. That’s right—Mystery Guy and I will probably never meet, so it’s futile imagining what his cock might taste like or how it might stretch my mouth.
Sigh. It’s fine. I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for that dating app. Just, I didn’t expect to hit it off with anybody, so that was a pleasant surprise. It has been fun, and Ishould accept that it’s likely coming to an end. Just like the art competition.
With a smile on my face and a bit of sadness, I sign my name at the bottom left corner of my creation. The piece is now truly finished. Taking a few steps back, I look at it and smile, happy with the way it turned out. Vibrant colors intertwine with the darks of the figure in the middle, and as I take it in, I can’t help but wonder how it will make people feel. How they will interpret my take on what ambition is and whether my vision, in the way I intended it, will translate as effectively to them as it does to me.
That’s the thing with art—it can be understood in so many ways depending on who’s looking at it.
A door opens and closes downstairs. It’s not the front door since there’s some time until the gallery’s opening, but the one leading to the first floor storage area. I glance over my shoulder from my vantage point and see Jesse, the other artist who was happy to use the supplies provided instead of demanding specific ones.
He comes out empty-handed, meaning that his piece is also done and signed. I wonder as I watch him cross the space whether he managed to do everything he intended in the month we were given. I know the other two artists, Steven and Nicky, had some issues toward the end, complaining non-stop because their paints weren’t taking to the wall’s surface as well as they should be. Or maybe it was that they weren’t drying quickly enough? Fortunately, I didn’t have that problem, and judging by the pleased smile on Jesse’s face, he seems to have faced no major roadblocks either.
Collecting my tools and the tub of paint I used to sign the mural, I head over to the storage area on the second floor so I can drop the materials off like Jesse has just done. I follow the curve of the wall housing my mural to the back of the spaceand slip through the keycard-controlled door that’s currently propped open to give me access to the office and admin area. Once I have my supplies tucked away in their respective places on the racks in the small room, I retract my steps and find myself in front of my creation again.
As I look it over once again, a sense of intense accomplishment washes over me. It happens every time I finish a piece, when I stand in front of it and open myself to the sensations the colors and shapes evoke in me. It’s an incomparable feeling, one I have not found any other way to experience, and it gives me purpose, something to look forward to, to fight for, even if the world around me is on the verge of crumbling.
A callout from the floor below reminding us the doors will open in fifteen minutes pulls me out of my head. I’m still standing by the balustrade, so I guess I must have gotten lost in thought for longer than a couple of minutes. Banning myself from spending any more time fawning over my own mural, I snatch a quick photo for Molly and walk down the stairs so I can see how the other three turned out.
Steven’s is in the middle. It is vibrant and colorful, with flowers and trees and rivers meandering through one of Seattle’s industrial areas. To me, this is a positive take on climate change and humankind’s efforts to prevent it, and as I watch Steven add the final touch-ups, I find myself hopeful that we will manage to do just that.
I move onto Nicky’s piece next, though don’t linger. It depicts people in front of an audience. It’s not bad, the composition and the colors are nice, but it doesn’t make me feel much of anything, which tells me that her style and my preferences are a mismatch.
When I get to Jesse’s mural, on the other hand, I can’t help but smile. The desert flowing into the cityscape goes fromdull and sickly yellows to a saturated palette of green, blue and lavender that makes the upper half of the painting stand out even if the shapes are vague. It’s a mix of styles, with a little bit of abstract here and there, and I just love the way it’s all incorporated together.
“Do you like it?” a friendly voice asks me from the left.
I whip my head, startled, and find Jesse smiling at me. “Ye—yeah. I think it’s my favorite,” I mutter, surprised that he’s talking to me.
Since we all came at whatever hours were suitable for each of us, we rarely ran into each other, so I haven’t had many opportunities to speak to the rest. I’m not very good at talking to people, so I didn’t mind it, though it would’ve been interesting to maybe hear the thought processes of the artists behind the other murals.
He laughs and scratches his tattooed arm. “You mean after your own one, right?” He winks at me. “I went up to see how it turned out,” he muses, looking thoughtful. “It’s different, but I like it. I can see why Cassandra chose your sketch. It really makes you think, doesn’t it?”
My heartbeat kicks up at his words. That was my intention, so if it got him thinking, then it means I did something right. “Thanks.”
He smiles again, shaking his head to displace a ginger curl that’s flopped over his eyes. “Excited for the opening?”
“I am—” Oh, shit. I pull out my phone and check the time. It’s almost four thirty, so the doors will open any minute now. I have to leave soon if I want to make it on time to my job at the shipping center, so I should probably find Cassandra and let her know I won’t be staying for the entire event. “I have work, so I’m only staying for a bit.”
His expression falls a little. “Really? Can’t you call in sick or something? The opening is kind of a big deal.”
He’s right, but there’s no one else who can cover for Nigel, and if I am being honest, I don’t mind not being here once the gallery fills up. Crowds make me nervous, and I never know what to say if someone talks to me.
I raise my shoulders. “Not really. I’m covering for someone.”
He gives me a look I can’t read, then shrugs. “Oh well… can’t be helped in that case.” He pauses and studies his hands before tucking one of them in his pocket to produce a small business card. “Hey, I run a small studio if you are ever interested in dropping by. We do live drawing sessions a couple times a week at eleven and six.”
I stare at the pretty plastic thing and blurt out, “I don’t have one.”
He raises an eyebrow in confusion. “You don’t have one…?”
I blink at him. “A studio. Or a business card.”
Raking his hand through his hair, he chuckles. “That’s fine. It’s all the more reason why you should stop by if you find the time, actually…” he trails off, though he doesn’t say anything after that, so I take it as the end of our conversation.
I put the card in my pocket and offer him a small smile along with a thanks, then head up to the second floor so I can find Cassandra. I’ve done a couple live drawing sessions but they are usually very crowded, so I tend to steer away from them. Then again, if Jesse’s studio is small, the group size is probably smaller too, so maybe I can check it out.
Unfortunately, Cassandra is in the middle of talking to someone when I spot her by one of the paintings. I watch them for a few moments and recognize the man—it’s Adam, Derek Salinger’s partner. Just like the first time I met him, he looks stunning with his wavy black hair hanging down his bare shoulders. A black corset hugs his chest and that same bold red lipstick graces his full lips. I don’t think I could pull somethinglike that off, which makes sense, because I’m nothing like him. He’s pretty and he knows how to own it.
