Regulars, or…?
You’re making it way too obvious that you’re asking about Logan Stone.
Rude.
But I’m right.
He’s as famous as the fucking Beatles now anyway. I might be a distant memory for him.
And the answer is no, by the way. He hasn’t come in.
The low buzz of the big neon sign across the street fills the air. The orangey glow saturates everything around me like someone took a fat watercolor brush and dabbed it onto thisrooftop. I look back down toward the city, wishing I had a canvas or my sketchpad.
That’s what that night was.
What that entire three weeks was… until it wasn’t.
Neon-drenched. Alive with color.
I’ve painted this cityscape view many times since then, with color exploding through the sky. I’ve even photographed it with my film camera, etching this exact viewpoint into my brain.
I step all the way up to the edge again.
The wind blows hard as I peer over, looking at the sheer drop. My legs feel like jelly looking that far down.
It isn’t really as fun when Logan’s not here to act all worried about me.
“Fuckthis,” I say into the air, stepping away from the edge fast as I make a decision.
He needs to know that I’ve gotten better.
I don’t haunt this city like I used to, drinking on the job and having no goddamn clue about my future. When Logan found me, I was still hollow, only just learning how to heal, living my life minute to minute and turning to alcohol because it made it so much easier to pretend I didn’t care.
But I do care.
And I’m not afraid to anymore.
It would be easy to say that quitting drinking helped me with my art, but it’s the opposite.
My art has been saving me.
The more I got back into painting, the less I drank, until one day I woke up and realized it had been months since I’d had a tequila.
Over the last year, I’ve channeled all of my misplaced energy into my paintings. My father used to tell me “art ain’t worth shit,” butfuckhim. Years ago, one of my exes told me I was talentless, but fuck her, too.
I post videos of myself painting now, because hitting rockbottom meant that I didn’t give a damn about shame anymore.
My art is mine.
A place where I can put all the parts of me that don’t have another home.
Every time I complete a painting, I catalog it on my Instagram page, because I’m done overthinking whether or not I’m talented enough. I’ve also had a few paid photography jobs over the past few months. Nothing fancy, just some pet portraits and one bridal shoot for a woman who works maintenance at the Bellwood.
But it’s something.
And I’d like it if Logan at leastknewthat, even if I have no place in his life.
It’s the first time in my life that I can say I’m proud of something I’m doing.
