Page 109
She found the building, called Carl, the owner, and made the appointment, but there’s satisfaction on her face rather than disappointment as she says it. She picks up her work bag. “You’ll tell me what you think?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She leaves twenty minutes later. I hear the door close, then the lock turn, followed by the faint sound of her steps outside.
For a while, I stand in the kitchen with my coffee. Usually when Laura leaves for work, I already know what comes next. This morning, the plan belonged to both of us until she walked out the door. Now it belongs to me, and I’m still going.
Before I leave, I notice the dining-room chair. There’s blue paint across one side of the seat cushion from the other day. Laura saw it when it happened and said the chair had survived worse things, but I don’t think that was true.
I take the cushion with me. The workshop is three blocks off Main Street. Carl meets me outside, and he talks too much, but I like the building anyway.
The front room is bigger than Laura’s living room and dining room together, with concrete floors already marked by years of work. The windows are high and wide, and one wall runs almost the full length of the room without a window or door breaking it up. I could hang several canvases the size of the park painting there and still have space left.
There’s a large sink in the back. I turn the faucet on, and the water comes out brown for a few seconds before running clear.
Carl keeps talking. “There’s storage back here. Bathroom needs some love. Heat works. Air’s not great, but those ceiling fans move a lot of air.”
An old couch sits against the far wall, worn enough that I can’t tell what color it started. Carl nods toward it. “Couch stays unless you want me to haul it out. Previous tenant used to nap back here when he worked late.”
The back room has enough space for stacks of canvases, extra paint, drop cloths, and anything else I don’t need underfoot while I’m working. Back in the main room, I stand near the center and turn slowly. I can picture paint on the floor, canvases leaning where they won’t block anyone’s refrigerator, supplies staying exactly where I leave them. I could come here in the morning and work until I’m finished instead of cleaning everything away before dinner. Carl is still talking when I interrupt him.
“I want it.”
He stops. “You haven’t heard the rent yet.”
“You told me outside.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I want it.”
The words feel different from choosing boots or paint. Those things belonged to me after I chose them, but this is a place I can shape around my own life instead of fitting into someone else’s. I’m choosing a place that exists because I need it.
Mine, if I can make the rest work.
Carl hands me the lease.
“I cannot read all of this.”
His expression changes.
“Someone is coming who can.”
“All right.”
I hold the papers anyway. Blair arrives a few minutes later, her shoes sharp against the concrete.
“Busy morning?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like it.”
I hand her the lease, and Blair reads every page. She doesn’t just tell me what it says. She explains each section in words I understand, stopping twice when Carl hesitates over answers she wants from him.
“You can’t prohibit him from attaching protective sheeting to the walls and also charge him for paint damage,” she says.
