“Sorry,” I said with a grimace. “I had a migraine, and-”
“Another one, eh? You’ve had a few of those since you started in my zone,” he interrupted. He cocked his head and observed me.
I remained still and observed him right back.
Rod had a distinctly indistinct sort of look about him. If I saw him in the grey streets of New Toronto, I doubted I’d look twice or even recognize him without his uniform and the context of the factory’s backdrop behind him. He was a white guy with an average build, average height, and a doughy sort of face that had no real defining characteristics, much of his jaw hidden behind a beard.
“How long has it been since you got transferred to my zone?” he asked.
“Six months,” I said, feeling suddenly nervous. The earplugs from earlier were feeling less and less like a sign this was going to go well. His eyes had a narrowed, calculating look to them that made me wary. Was he adding up how many days I’d missed? “But I’ve worked here a lot longer than that,” I added hurriedly, hoping that might help my case. “About four years.”
“I hear that you’re an artist.”
“Uh…”
Where the heck had that come from? I cast about for something to say, totally thrown by the sudden shift in the conversation.
“I like to paint,” I said, feebly, after an awkward pause. The last person who’d referred to me as an artist had been Daddy. I’d never quite managed to use the same term for myself. Somehow, I didn’t feel I was quite there yet, like I didn’t deserve the title. I had no real training, no patron, no income from my work. No, not an artist yet.
Just a factory girl who liked to paint.
Asillyfactory girl.
“See, here’s the thing,” Rod said with a shake of his head. “How do I know you’re actually sick when you’re not here, and not painting? Or spending time with your patron?”
“My…What?!”
“You have one, don’t you? Or you’re looking for one?”
OK. There was no way he should have known that. There were definitely a few people in our zone who knew about my painting, and he could have heard that from them. But I hadn’t told anyone I’d been trying to secure a patron, something I’d been doing on and off since Daddy’s death. It was too embarrassing. Because I hadn’t been successful yet, as evidenced by the fact that I was still working here.
The only way Rod could have known that would be if he were trying to find me online. My real name was attached to profiles on several different art forums and apps, places where people with credits to spare could connect with and support various creators.
“I…I don’t have a patron,” I admitted shakily.
“Hmm.” He rubbed his beard. The bristly sound against his fingers made my stomach turn. “Maybe you need one, then.”
“You mean…”
“Me.”
“You…” I was floundering. Maybe my brain still wasn’t completely online after the migraine. Or maybe this conversation had taken a completely bizarre turn I never could have prepared for. “You’re interested in the arts?”
His eyes moved in a slow line down my body, then back up.
“I’m certainly interested in the work of art right in front of me.”
“Pardon…me?”
“I’ll be your patron,” he said, his eyes once again doing that slow up-and-down motion. “We can work out an arrangement. You make some art for me. And I’ll let slide all the days you’ve missed due to your migraines.” He raised his hands, using his fingers to make quotation marks around the “migraines” part.
Oh.
Realization crystallized, cold and hard.
He wanted nudes. Or maybe even more.
Goosebumps exploded along my arms even while I began to sweat.
