Page 53 of Liquids

Warmth seeps in that he remembers this. I told him ages ago. I run through my conversation with the recruitment agent and the interview that followed. But I don’t tell him about Angelo and the stripping because I think he’d lose his shit and I don’t need him getting all up in Angelo’s space. All the while he listens and nods, and I want to tell him to stop listening so intently because it’s not helping. But it’s like I’ve got verbal diarrhea and haven’t talked to anyone in months. Just for good measure, I rattle on about my debt and how I’m behind on my rent and so strapped for cash, and how badly I need the work. Why am I airing all my dirty laundry to him? But he doesn’t appear fazed or bored. Maybe he found all the final demands when he cleaned my apartment.

“I’m going to come around and take those pictures and frame them when I come back. I’ll take ’em to a few local galleries. I bet you’d sell some.”

Oh, God. “No way, Rig. No way are they good enough to go in a gallery.”

“Babe.”

I shake my head.

“Well, do some more that are better, then.” He jerks his chin at me. “Go find your sketchpad.”

“Don’t be a lunatic.”

“I’ll take my shirt off.”

What? I gape at him. That’s supposed to be some kind of threat?

He smirks. “Babe, I know you like my chest. Either you draw, or I’ll strip.”

I can’t say that I’d prefer him naked, like by a long way. And I shouldn’t even be thinking that. Friends, Carly. Gah! I put my phone down and head off to the bedroom, digging all the art materials he bought for me out of the closet where I stashed them after he left. When I pick up my phone again, he has taken his shirt off.

“What are you doing? You said if I drew, you wouldn’t take your clothes off …”

He smirks at me. “Just my shirt. And I’m giving you something to draw.”

My eyes wander over his skin. Yes. I grab a pencil and sketch a quick outline, drawing his shaggy hair and broad shoulders. I shade in the curves of his muscles, the dips and the hollows, and even though he’s gorgeous, he’s just a life model to me right now. My tongue sticks out as I try and add the shadows around his face, barking at him to stay still every time he moves. I don’t know how long I sit scratching over the paper, but after a while he says:

“Babe, it’s dinnertime, I’ve got to go and …”

I wave my hand at him. “I’ve got enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“To complete it.”

“Can I see it?”

Gah, it’s terrible. “It’s not finished.”

“Then I’m coming by to see what you’ve done when I get back.”

I scowl at him. “And when’s that?”

“In two weeks.”

Is it a threat or a promise? I don’t really know. But I don’t want to examine how warm it makes me that he’s going to stop by. After he’s rung off, I stare down at my drawing; I’m going to have to finish what I’ve started.

18

UNDERCURRENTS

When I get to Agnes’s house, I slam the car door and hustle up the steps. I overslept this morning, and I’ve been running late all day, which is not helpful when I’m seeing Agnes, who likes to have a coffee and a chat. Well, they all do, really. I rap on her faded blue wooden door and look at the weeds sprouting through the concrete. What happens when you’re too old to take care of things for yourself anymore? When the door opens, Marge is there, Agnes peering over her shoulder like a momma cat training her kitten. Both of their beady, watery eyes are fixed on me. Marge shuffles forward in her tweed skirt, thick wrinkled tights, and slippers, and rubs her hands together, as her dachshund, Dolly, appears between her legs.

“Marge, what are you doing here?”

“We’ve got some news about that man of yours,” Agnes chirps from behind her, glasses perched on the end of her nose as her loose gray bun slides perilously to one side on her head.

“I wasn’t aware I had a man,” I say, and Agnes tsks at me.