“Sorry, it’s just that the view you have here is incredible.” Her heels click their way over to the floor-to-ceiling window off the kitchen, and I follow her.
“Yeah, it’s all right.” I downplay the view that I definitely overpaid for. To most it’s just that, a view. Nothing special. The floor I’m on gives me an optimal view of Central Park on one side of my penthouse, and on the other the entrance to the Met, which was the main factor in me purchasing this place. I love art and the Met is one of my favorite museums. Not only are the art installations inside breathtaking, but the architecture of the building is too. Even though my career is a far cry from anything in the arts, I enjoy being able to visit when my schedule allows it, and to admire the Victorian Gothic Revival style from the comfort of my home.
She turns her attention to me. “You don’t have to be so modest. The view, as well as every detail of this place, is stunning.”
I bite my tongue, wanting nothing more than to say that the view and all the contents inside one of the world’s most famous museums doesn’t hold a candle to her beauty. But I hold back. I have to. That’s not only highly inappropriate, it makes me look more desperate for her than I already am.
“I’m jealous. I love the Met.”
“Have you been?”
“No, I just said I love it to impress you.” She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’ve been. Many times. It was one of the first places I went to when I moved to the city. I love art.”
“Me too.”
“Really?”
“Yes, that’s one of the reasons I chose here to live. The Met, has always been one of those places for me, outside of the gym, that I can escape to and clear my mind.”
She nudges my arm playfully, and the proximity of her touch sends a wave of heat throughout my body. “Looks like we have another thing to add to our very limited shared interests list.”
“Oh, so you’re keeping track, huh?”
“I mean, we have very little in common. It’s not difficult tolosetrack.”
“You know what they say, opposites attract,” I blurt, instantly regretting it though much to my relief she goes right over it.
“Who is your favorite artist?”
“Frida Kahlo,” I say.
“Mine too. She knew how to take pain and make it beautiful, even when it hurt to do so.”
“I agree. You can add that to your list of what we have in common.”
“Guess I can,” she breathes just as silence creeps over us as we stare out the window. I can’t help but think of everything that has pained me, and if I had to guess, she’s doing the same, since that look in her eyes that captivated me the first time I peered into them has risen again to the surface.
“You know, you should have a talk with your sister.”
“Why is that?”
“Because she made it seem like you were so boring.”
Thanks a lot, Lo.
I don’t know what possesses me to ask what I do, but I’m realizing the brain-to-mouth connection I usually have down pat is faulty around her. “Am I?”
Her lips fold inward as she hums, wanting to speak but deciding not to.
“You can be honest.”
“Nooo…”
That’s a loaded ‘No’, if I’ve ever heard one.
“It’s okay,” I encourage her, wanting to hear what she really thinks of me. “You can tell me. Use your words.”
I can’t help but to notice her chest rise and fall a few times, as if she’s trying to consult herself first. “You can’t be talking to me like that. Anyway, I think the version of yourself that you present to the world is, yes, a tad boring, but when you allow the real you to poke through, I think you’re anything but. No offense, that is.”
