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Eventually, though, the knocks grow so persistent that I can hardly follow the rhythm of the soft background music serving as a medium for my artistic exploration.
Fucking Lucy.
“Go away!” I call over my shoulder, but the answering chuckle is not an annoyed feminine laugh. No. It’s husky and deep and rough around the edges.
“Ans, it’s Nigel,” the disturbance answers back.
Nigel Marx. We grew up together on the outskirts of the Bronx and found our way into the art world during our college years. Where I’ve always had an innate ability to create, Nigel has a natural talent for seeking out beauty.
If anyone can find art worth seeing, it’s Nigel. Or Nye, as I’ve grown to call him over the years.
Even though he’s one of my oldest friends, I groan and contemplate at least ten different ways to tell him to fuck off. I may not be as grumpy as I was before the surgery, but being interrupted during the creative process brings me as close to that level of aggravation as I come these days.
But even the bad-tempered side of my personality knows a verbal middle finger is unwarranted.
Technically speaking, it’s probably not even his fault. My assistant is undoubtedly too busy posting pictures of her new nose job on Instagram to follow my instructions and man the reception desk in the front.
So, eventually, I set my brush down beside my paints, move the canvas into the small, hidden nook near the windows, and tell him to come inside.
Dressed in a sharp black suit and tie, Nigel strides in as I head over to the sink to wash the dried paint off my hands.
“Did I interrupt?” he asks, and I glance at him over my shoulder.
“Yep.”
A big, hearty laugh escapes his throat. “You don’t even want to pretend I’m not being a huge inconvenience to you right now?”
“Pretty sure you know me better than that,” I say with a grin and swipe the extra moisture off my hands onto my jeans. “I’m not a beat-around-the-bush kind of guy, Nigel.”
He grins at that.
“What brought about this gloriously annoying visit of yours today?”
“Just want to make sure you’re ready for the big opening,” he says and slides his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. I don’t miss the way he takes it upon himself to peruse my studio, his eyes taking in all of the empty canvases stacked in the corner and the finished works scattered along the floor and the walls.
“By all means, please feel free to browse. You know how much I love that.”
He ignores my jab completely. “So, can I count on you to be there?”
“Be where?”
“You know where, you bastard.” He glares. “Does January 31st ring a bell? The big exhibition some of us have been working so hard on.”
“If I weren’t such a big person, I wouldn’t be able to ignore the fact that you’re insinuating I, the artist, haven’t done any work for the show.”
He rolls his eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant. Stop trying to distract me.”
Now it’s my turn to make a show of my new eyes’ ability to move. “We’ve already been through this, man. There’s no reason for me to be there.”
Unconvinced, Nye presses on. “It’s your opening, Ans. You need to be there.”
“I don’t need to be anywhere.”
“Tell me this…why wouldn’t you want to be there? This is your first exhibition in five years. Since before the accident. This is huge. If anything, you should be there to celebrate that you’re painting again. That you’re alive.”
And just like that, he’s answered his own question. He just doesn’t know it.
Circuslike fanfare and a giant spotlight on my tragic past are the last things I want. I just want to paint without all of the fucking hoopla.
“How about this? I’ll drink a glass of whiskey tonight to celebrate. I’ll even give myself a special toast.”
“If you drink that glass of whiskey inside my gallery, on the night of your opening, then we have a deal.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Not happening.”
“The press will be there. Your fans will be there. People want to see you. They want to talk to you. Interview you. Why don’t you want to be there?”
“For those exact fucking reasons, Nye,” I answer honestly. “While I’m thankful people still want to see my art, I don’t need the ego trip that comes with gallery openings and interviews. I don’t need fans kissing my ass, and I sure as fuck don’t need rich investors schmoozing me up because it makes them think they’ll have a better shot at getting their greedy hands on one of my paintings.”
Silence stretches between us, and I hope that means Nigel has finally come to terms with the reality of my absence at the opening.
Before the accident, I would’ve been there in a heartbeat. I would’ve been the guy with the big fucking ego and some random, superficially beautiful model attached to my arm. The douchebag looking at everyone inside that gallery and mentally giving myself a pat on the back.
