Page 1 of Not Another Dark Romance

1

Ican do this.

Deep breath in, exhale for five. “It doesn’t have to be perfect right away.” My tone is falsely cheery, but maybe if I say it convincingly enough, I’ll believe it. “Just pick a color, any color, and put it on the canvas. You can always paint over it. Just start. You can make it better later.”

Maybe the fact that I’m sitting here talking to myself, again—my four-year-old bulldog, Piet, isn’t even in the room with me—means my life is even more bleak than I’d care to admit.

Boring, basic, lonely. Sad.

I let out a self-deprecating chuckle at that thought, though, and correct myself out loud. “Not sad. I’m making a living pursuing my art. Just… uninspired lately. That walk this morning was clearly not what I needed.”

Piet had the right idea, refusing to join me. I swear he’s the world’s laziest dog. Best cuddler, though.

Doing the same thing every day is obviously not good for my art. My last piece sold for the highest price yet, but after that high, I’ve been stuck, staring at a blank canvas for over a week with absolutely no idea of what to do next. I redyed my bright pink hair; usually that gives me a little boost, but not this time. Spending all my free time reading has been much more appealing than starting another piece with no direction, but unfortunately, that won’t pay my bills.

There’s no real rush. I have some money saved, especially after my last piece, but my brain doesn’t do well without something productive to focus on. It’s probably why I’m such a good painter in the first place.

Maybe it’s artistic burnout, or imposter syndrome, or maybe it’s the negative comments that inevitably accompany every post featuring my art, but lately I’ve felt more and more like I should explore a new career path.

“Fuck that. Art has always been my calling,” I mutter to myself. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else, or worse, working for a company that tells me what to do with my art in exchange for a more “stable” paycheck.

I’m not cut out for that life.

Which is why today is officially day one of trying to find my muse again. The walk in the park this morning with my coffee did fuck all for me, but it was a stupid idea anyway. The only time being in nature sounds enjoyable is if I were being chased through the trees by a hot man in a mask. You know, completely normal, healthy thoughts. The kind of thoughts therapists would absolutely love to unpack for $200 an hour.

But this is real life, and real life is way more boring than my books. Probably why they keep stealing my attention.

I let out a dramatic sigh. This once inspiring city is now filled with places I’ve passed by thousands of times. “But I’ve never walked into them. At least, not all of them,” I argue aloud. “The characters in my books don’t sit at home and order takeout for every meal.”

Maybe leaving to go eat dinner somewhere will help? There’s that new trendy restaurant downtown I keep telling myself to check out. I should just do it, even if I have to go alone.

If the main character in my last romance found his psychotic-billionaire-stalker-turned-love-of-his-life at a coffee shop, surely I can find some inspiration at a place with overpriced small plates and carefully selected decor.

Piet promptly ignores me when I check if he wants to go out before I throw on a beanie and light coat to leave, so I guess he’s good, which doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.

The Salty Duck Bistro is only a five-minute walk from my apartment. I really should have come sooner, but I don’t love eating in public alone. I pull the long black handle toward me and look around as I enter. The restaurant has a modern feel with plants hanging from the ceiling, blue tile lining the walls, and a neon sign in the corner with the Salty Duck logo lit up. The bar is in the middle of the room, with lights under it and liquor bottles lining the shelf. It could really use some art on the walls. I’m not immediately blown away or inspired, but that would be a lot to ask from a first impression.

“Hi, just one?” a hipster-looking brunette with curtain bangs asks, eyeing the paperback I brought with me.

“Yes, please.” I follow her as she grabs a menu and leads me to a table intended for two. It’s a lovely reminder of how lonely I’ve been lately, which is probably contributing to the artistic block I seem to be in. All my friends have been coupling up and spending more and more time at home with their partners, creating an even bigger void in my life since I’m usually inspired by conversations and people.

I’ve tried dating, of course, but I haven’t found anyone who matches what I’m looking for. I’ve always been drawn to a specific type of person: a queer man who isn’t afraid to get a little—okay, a lot—crazy with me. Stable is just so fucking boring, and the right red flags always look like fun opportunities to me.

I take off my coat and flip through the menu, but nothing stands out. I hate making dumb small decisions like what to eat. “Ugh,” I groan to myself. This idea was probably another waste of my time. Maybe I need an international trip, something bigger than trying to find inspiration in the same place I lost it. Maybe I need to accidentally stumble into a Romanian castle and get held captive by⁠—

“Hello, my name is Zane, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I get you anything to drink besides water?” The deep voice pulls my attention up, and I lock eyes with a stunning man who I’m absolutely fine with “taking care of me” tonight. He’s so handsome I don’t know where to keep my attention: his short dark brown hair, his trimmed beard highlighting his strong jaw, his gray-blue eyes, or the obvious muscles defined under his fitted white collared shirt.

Well, hello sexy waiter.

“Uh, hi,” I manage to squeak out, completely mesmerized by the man in front of me. “Water is fine.”

“Great. I’ll give you a moment to look over the menu, then I’ll be back for your order.” He flashes me a smile before walking away, and my heart feels like it’s doing somersaults in my chest.

Zane. His name is Zane. What a hot name.

Is this what happens when people leave the house? A sign from the universe that I’m on the right path, sending me a man named Zane who looks like he could bench press me, and also maybe has a dark past involving organized crime or a motorcycle gang? He definitely has the vibes for that. Maybe this trendy new restaurant is a front for the Mafia.

Apparently, I’ve been missing a lot by being so predictable in my routine. I could’ve been meeting hot waiters like Zane this whole time instead of going to the same coffee shop where Brian with the man bun lectures me about oat milk.