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nicker at his “crumb snatchers”.
“I don’t want to sell those paintings and I don’t do it for the money.” I remind him and a flutter of excitement lightens my stomach. I just mailed one of the most amazing pieces I’ve ever done, and I’m still giddy about it.
After I mailed my first set of “mirrors” to the women who shared their stories with me, everything changed. They started posting their pictures, tagging me in them and my following started growing. One of my subjects was a woman whose face had been scarred in a brutal attack by her husband. I didn’t know she was a nationally known fiction writer. When she shared her story and her “mirror” with her nearly 1 million IG followers, the requests flooded in. I’m booked solid for the next year and have a waiting list for the one after.
“You should, you’d be rich,” he scolds me.
“Maybe one day,” I say noncommittally.
“My son might be coming to visit this weekend, I’d love to show him some of your stuff,” he says cheerfully and my heart pulls in sadness at the hope in his eyes.
“That would be amazing. But are you sure you want to spend part of your time with him looking at my little paintings?”
His dark eyes lose a bit of the sparkle, and he hums his disapproval.
“They’re not little, Beth. I wish I was famous so I could get some television cameras to come and show the world something good about humanity. You’re the best of it, my girl.”
I flush at the praise, it’s the kind he’s heaped on me since we met.
“So are you, Joe. And I can’t wait to meet your kid, I’ve got a good feeling about this trip,” I say and he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“He’s going to love you, you’ll see.”
"Well he better, since you and I are a package deal.”
“That’s right,” he grins.
He’s a sculptor who I met right outside this building. A cab was dropping him off and I rushed to help him when I saw him struggling to get out.
He had a cast from his ankle to the middle of his thigh and crutches. I helped him into the building and he explained he’d just had a knee replacement surgery. I started checking on him a couple times a day.
When he complained about the grocery delivery service getting his order wrong, I took his list with me next time I went and had them sent to his Crown Heights apartment.
Somewhere between that and now, we became each other’s family. It was like we scented the loneliness in each other. Mine was by choice, his…I couldn’t tell exactly. He’s divorced with an ex-wife and kid in Delaware. He’s talked about the kid coming to visit every weekend since I’ve known him, but it’s never happened.
He’s old enough to be my father, but he hasn’t let that stop him from stepping into that role. I press a kiss to one of his smooth dark brown cheeks
“Okay, I gotta go, or I’ll be late,” I say and turn to hustle up the stairs before he can stop me again.
“The group you love, “Blue Clover…saw them on Good Day New York just now. They dropped it as a surprise - part of their tour announcement. They were on good morning America today and I caught it.”
My swallow is audible, and I clear my throat to disguise that it’s a because I’m nervous. I haven’t told Joe about Carter. I can’t. I don’t think he’d understand. “That lead singer looks a lot like the man in that painting you’ve got hanging up.” he says knowingly.
I turn and start back up the stairs. “Hmmm, that’s a coincidence. I know the song you mean. I do love it and I didn’t know there was a video,” I say with a casual smile. “Okay, I really gotta go. I’ll catch you later,” I call over my shoulder and run up the stairs as fast as my feet will carry me.
I didn’t really forget about the video going live today.
I couldn’t. Blue Clover is my secret obsession. I listen to that song on repeat all day at work. I watch all their interviews and I’ve been watching the YouTube highlights from their release tour.
He’s why I’m rushing today. I watched the clock all day, counting down the seconds until I could come home. I wanted to be alone the first time I watched it. Just in case I needed to cry or scream… or any other overreaction that I wouldn’t want anyone else to see.
I shoulder open the door of our apartment and even though I’m in a rush, I take a second to savor the slightly irrational swell of pride that I feel every time I step into the studio.
It’s beautiful - with big windows that let in light all day long. I slip my shoes off before I step off the mat at our front door and drop them on the small rack I bought just last week. The newly renovated with honey blonde laminate wood floors are warm from the sun’s attention and still smell of the lemon cleaner I mix myself. Because I don’t pay rent or spend time with the man who does, cleaning it myself makes it feel like it’s mine. I love knowing that the sparkle in those windows wouldn’t be as brilliant if I didn’t put it there.
I drop my keys and the bag of groceries onto the stone countertop that more than pulls its weight by serving as a work surface, dining table and at times, a place to lay my head. When I finally sit down and pull my phone out, my heart is beating out of my chest.
I don’t know why I’m dragging this out, I’ve been waiting for this all day. But I know there will only be one first time that I get to see his first music video and I want to savor all the emotions I’m nearly bursting with.
