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I nod, waking myself out of the mesmerizing moment. “I think so.”
Lowering the camera, I take a seat with my legs crossed, next to Foster. He sits up and leans over my shoulder, so we can view the frames together. One by one, I flip through the images of colors and shapes, including the more intimate ones of his face.
Foster makes no comment.
“What do you think?” I ask hesitantly, knowing that he might see what’s evident to me in the latter images.
“You did…it’s beyond anything I imagined. I’m almost afraid to shower.”
“I hope you aren’t serious.” I rest the camera in my lap. “I’ll send you a few copies.”
“I would like that.” He gazes down at the artwork on his chest. “So, is this what all art history majors do? Obsessively paint their friends?”
I laugh. “No, it’s just me.”
“So, you’re special?”
“Haven’t you noticed?”
“It’s come to my attention.” Foster traces a plum swirl on his lower ribs. “I’m curious though. What does an art history major do after graduating from college?”
Reaching over his legs, I place the camera back in its bag. “Most of them get jobs at museums or go on to grad school to again get a job at a museum, as a curator, or go into teaching and research. I don’t know. There are a few other things, too, but those are the most popular options.”
“Which one of those are you doing?”
“None.”
“Oh?” He grabs his black frames from the nearby side table and returns them to his face. “So, you’re one of the others?”
“I guess you could say that. I’ll be going to grad school and getting my MBA.”
“Really?” He sits up straighter, turning his full attention toward me. “Do you plan to run an art business or something?”
“Hardly,” I sputter. “I’ll be going to Yale most likely. It’s my duty to take part in the family tradition.”
“Wow. Yale, huh?”
“Yeah, I’m a double legacy. They have to take me.” I stare at my lap. “You know, you’re the first person I’ve ever told that to.”
“About getting an MBA?”
“Yeah…well, Chandra knows but not about Yale.”
“Is it a secret?”
“I guess not.” I lift a shoulder. “It’s just not something I’m shouting from the rooftops.”
“Do you not want to go?” he questions, his voice low and steady.
Grazing my fingers along the colorful dots, circles, and waves on his chest, I ask, “Do I seem like the MBA type?”
“Not really.” He wraps his fingers around my wandering hand. “If I’m being honest, you don’t seem like the art history type either. I don’t see you working in a museum or sitting in some office, doing research.”
Our gazes slowly connect.
“Sometimes, what we want to do and what we have to do aren’t always the same,” I say, like it’s a script that my mother has burned into my soul.
“It sucks, doesn’t it?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
He releases my hand, and I join it with the other on my lap.
“What about you? What are your plans after graduation?” I ask.
“MBA, likely Stanford or Duke. My grandparents are alumni at both.”
“Ah, you’re a legacy, too,” I tease, bumping his shoulder. “Who knew we had so much in common?”
“I never would have imagined.”
