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I raise my head back to meet his. “Damien, these are, like, ten-thousand-dollar cameras. I can’t accept this.”
“I didn’t ask if you could. I asked if you liked it.”
“Of course I do. This is…I’ve dreamt about one day owning one of these.”
“Well, now you do.” He takes the box out of my hands and sets it down on a table holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
“I can’t accept this.”
He brings his open palm to my face, caressing my warm cheek. “You can. Because it’s my way of saying I was wrong for the things I said the other day.”
“You don’t need to buy me anything to say you’re sorry.”
“I didn’t say I was sorry. I said I was wrong for the things I said.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
His hand lowers past my chin to my neck, his fingers gently teasing my skin. There is never a time where he doesn’t radiate dominance, even now. His fingers halt at the baseline of my neck, and his eyes locked onto that spot. I want to ask him what he’s doing, thinking about…if he wants me as badly as I want him.
“Take a walk with me.” He finally speaks, breaking the spell. His fingers release me and fall to his side. Disappointment strikes me, but I do my best to hide it. I follow in step with him as he walks us through the low-lit gallery. A few minutes pass before he stops in front of a painting. “Do you know who this is?”
I observe the artwork. “No,” I reply, not familiar.
“His name is Caio Fonseca. Formally from New York, but now spends most of his time in Tuscany where he has his current studio.”
I continue to stare at the abstract design, confused where he’s going with this. “His father was a painter. And his father before that. It was his legacy to follow in their footsteps. He studied in Paris and Italy. Quite talented. Made a name for himself before returning back to the States. There was an article published about him. He spoke about his life and his career. He called himself the painter with two lives.”
He pauses for a moment. “He explained not everything is as it seems. We may all look perfect on the outside, but on the inside, we may be living a different life. Everyone has two of them. The life they allow people to see, and the one hidden deep inside we as humans all crave. He considered his paintings the same way. Like a two-sided mirror. What one sees might not be what another one does.” He ends on that and turns to walk away.
“Wait. I don’t get it. What does all that mean?”
He stops to address me. “It means not everything, or everyone, is as it seems, Jensen.” Then continues to walk, forcing me to follow.
Only a few more steps, then he stops at another painting. “Do you know this one?”
I look at the artwork. “No.”
“I thought you were a lover of art?” He smirks, then dodges my slap to his shoulder.
“I am. Just because I don’t know two paintings doesn’t mean I don’t love art.”
“Fair enough. Tell me what you see.”
I look at the painting. It’s of a woman and a man, both wearing a cover of some sort over their heads. They seem to be kissing. “They look sad. Unsure. Maybe unaware of who they really are.” I turn to Damien, who offers me a nod of approval.
“Very good. It’s titled The Lovers. Painted by René Margritte in nineteen-twenty-eight. The meaning behind it suggests imprisonment of the couple. Possibly a lonely relationship. They may seem to be kissing, but their lips never touch. A masterpiece of sexual frustration, one might say.”
“And why the art lesson on this specific piece?” I ask.
“It’s telling you, or more like showing you, the inability to expose the true nature of your most intimate desires. Possibly companions.” He winks at me and walks off.
“Wait! You’re seriously confusing me right now. I’m not understanding all this hidden meaning crap.”
Just like before, he walks until he finds another painting to stop at. “Do you know who this is?”
“Damien,” I warn.
“Just humor me. And if you’re good, I’ll reward you with the answers you desire.”
I frown and turn to the painting. This one, I actually do recognize. “Of course, it’s Van Gogh. Who doesn’t know his work?”
Damien is quiet while admiring the painting. “He didn’t become famous until after his death. He had a hard life. Suffered from depression, mental illness. His work, though, is remarkable. Did you know he failed as an artist when he was alive? Barely sold his work. They say he went mad over the loss of love. The history books claim he only had his brother. His letters to his brother, Theo, are published. Sad, many of them. But you can feel the love he felt. Also, the loneliness in them. Vincent died in eighteen-eighty. His brother, six months later. Buried next to one another, as a matter of fact.”
