“But I bet lots of mendohate their abs. And suffer from depression.”
“Interesting.”
“And then all kinds of bad actor movements take advantage of that.”
“Not all men,” Rachel says.
“Of course not.”
We share a dessert and linger over it since the exhibition starts at seven and it’s still early. Then we walk to the gallery about six blocks away.
“Jesus, it’s cold,” I grumble, tugging my scarf up over my chin as the wind buffets us.
“You’ve lived here your whole life. You’d think you’d be used to it by now.”
I sigh. “I am used to it. I still don’t like it, though.”
Rachel turns the corner and my steps slow regarding the dark, narrow street we’re on. “Is this the right way?”
“This is it. Come on.”
Brick buildings are fronted by garage-type doors on one side of the street. On the other, there are no doors or windows in the buildings. My skin prickles with unease. I never used to be an anxious person, but after the accident, I got really fearful about a lot of things.
But Rachel leads me to a set of double doors, bright with lights from inside, and I follow her into the gallery. People mill around everywhere with a buzz of talk and laughter floating beneath the high, beamed ceiling. I survey the giant paintings hanging on white walls as we take off our coats and hand them to a woman who greets us. Then we head straight to the bar.
Glasses of prosecco in hand, we drift over to one of the paintings. I study it. I think it’s a lone bird trying to keep up with a flock in the distant sky, but I’m not 100 percent sure of that because on closer inspection the bird actually looks like a lobster. It’s calledLeft.
“Interesting,” I murmur.
“Mmm.” Rachel studies the painting, her expression suggesting her brain is being twisted like a pretzel.
We move on to another wall displaying a series of paintings, all of which include a window of some sort.
The couple standing next to us are talking about the paintings.
“Windows are a symbol of isolation,” the man says. “You can see other people and they can see you, but you’re alone.”
“Brilliant,” the woman says. “I love how he plays with psychological profundity.”
I nod, biting my lip.
“I like this one,” Rachel says, shifting to her right. I follow. It’s a woman looking out a window at an apartment building with rows of windows, each showing another person—some laughing, some eating, some gazing back out. In one window, a vulture sits.
“What about the vulture?” I whisper, pointing.
“Oh. Um. I don’t know.”
I turn to look around the gallery and sip my prosecco. It’s nice so many people are here for the opening of the exhibition. Where is the artist, though? We’re here because Rachel wants to meet him.
My gaze runs over the clusters of people, looking for the man whose picture Rachel showed me earlier. “Is that him?” I ask, moving my head to gesture.
She looks across the room. “Oh! Yes, that’s him.”
The wiry man wears dark-orange pants, a blue and orange flowered shirt, and a tan fedora, and is talking animatedly to a group of people.
“Well, let’s shuffle that way,” I say.
We start moving, rounding a wall in the middle of the gallery that divides another area, and then I freeze. I grab Rachel’s arm.
