Page 3 of Infamous Heart

Lydia brought more pep into my morning than any amount of coffee Chad brewed. She yanked a copy of the comic from a box, scanned the barcode at the register and slipped it into the bag.

“Something’s wrong.” her eyes narrowed, and I swore I could hear her rifling through the back of my mind. “There is a disturbance in the Force. Your dog is sick.” At least I didn’t need to worry about my comic shop owner being a secret telepath.

“No dog.”

“Your mom forgot your birthday?”

“Not quite.”

“The milk in your cereal went bad?”

“Strictly a toast guy.”

“Oh, wait.” Lydia’s laugh bordered on a cackle. “That’s my morning. Your morning is your job not appreciating the work you do and you’re thinking of quitting.”

If Lydia had superpowers, the world was doomed. “How’d you know that?”

“Griff, you complain about your job all the time. It’s not like I’m a psychic.” With two fingers against her temple, she narrowed her eyes. “Or am I?”

I paid for the comic and backed away from the woman. “I’ll read this tonight. Then we can argue which of us is getting Ricardo naked.”

“I’ll fight you, man. I’ll fight you so hard.” She turned to the box filled with custom orders, before spinning around, her eyes radiating a wild energy. “Then we can finish brainstorming our comic book. Don’t think I’ve forgotten, mister.”

I slid the comic into my messenger bag and stepped out of the store. The sun had turned up the intensity, promising another hot summer in Vanguard City. Only a few stores down, I paused, surprised to see the brown paper removed from the old candy store. There are few things that can make a graphic designer happier than the words, “Art Supply Store.”

With time to kill, I might as well stroll down memory lane and recall my college years when I thought I’d be a famous painter. I traded passion for practicality. Usually, I’d be okay with this. But today, having been told yet again I wasn’t good enough, I feared I had made the wrong choice.

I slipped inside, a tiny bell above the door jingling. The door hadn’t even shut when I set my eyes upon a rack of sketchbooks. You’re not an artist until you have a collection of empty sketchbooks falling off the shelf. Once upon a time, they were like a drug. My fingers dragged along the exterior, feeling the coarse bumps of the covers. It was good to see I hadn’t entirely kicked the habit.

Turning the corner, the aisle held the canvases and acrylic paints. During school, not a single shirt I owned escaped the wrath of my major. It had been freeing, sitting outside, watching the waves along the beach as I tried to capture the essence of the shore.

I hadn’t been a great painter, at least not skilled enough to make a career from it. But it seemed that was the story of my life: good, but not good enough. My ex had made it clear that I would never amount to anything. When he left me for a well-to-do investor, he cited that my goals weren’t lofty enough.

“Oh…my…God,” came a woman’s voice. I spun. Being a large guy meant I took up plenty of room, and tight spaces like the aisle were my kryptonite. My messenger bag knocked several tubes of paint onto the floor.

“I’m so sorry.” Add klutz to the mean things I’d say about myself today.

Near the back of the store, a woman in a long peasant dress held her hands over her mouth. For a moment, I thought she might be a classmate from art school, but try as I might, I couldn’t place her.

“Sorry! I got excited. I didn’t realize the front door was unlocked.”

“Oh,” I felt foolish breaking into the store. “I’ll come back another time.”

“No, no, no.” She dashed down the aisle, kneeling and helping me pick up the tubes of paint. “Today is our grand opening. You’re technically the first customer in my store!”

I held out my hand. “Welcome to the Ward, name’s Griffin.”

“Clarice,” she shook my hand, her grip far stronger than her slender frame should allow.

“I guess if I’m your first customer, I need to buy something.” The thick glasses exaggerated her eyes as they went wide and at the same time narrowed from the smile raising her cheeks. “What do you recommend for a former painter sorely out of practice?”

“In a few weeks, we’re going to start having classes. I mean, if you’re interested.” Her nervousness put me at ease. This wonderful woman was attempting to carve out a spot for herself in the business world. Sometimes life throws you a lifeline when you’re drowning.

“Where do I sign up?” Passion. This wasn’t to put food on my table, or to validate my skills, it was purely for love. I could swear my heart thumped a bit in my chest. “I’ll need to practice a little or I’ll be finger painting.”

Her arms darted to the paints, grabbing a tube of yellow, blue, and then red. She eyed the brushes before giving me the once over. Her fingers danced over the professional brushes before settling on a set of quality tools. “This is going to get you started. Do you need a canvas?”

“Oddly enough, I still have one in my closet. One of those projects you swear you’ll get to someday.”

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