Page 5 of Painting Her

They both decline, so I’m free to take my time.

The cobblestone streets and old brick buildings take me back to when I walked this neighborhood, going door to door with my rolled-up canvases, trying to get any gallery owner to show some interest. In some ways, those were the best of times, when ideas flowed freely and I was more fun. Not now.

I shake off the melancholy.

Pulling up the collar of my blazer, I tuck my hands inside the front pocket of my jeans. There’s a slight breeze, but I can think of nothing better than sitting outdoors with my coffee, watching women go by. Maybe I’ll find my muse.

I grab a small table outside Maxwell’s Coffee Bar when the inside of my jacket begins to vibrate. A text.

“Damn.” I thought I could have a moment.

Looking at the screen, I see there are several messages and I begin thumbing through.

Hey baby so much fun in that elevator, wanna try my escalator.

“Nope,” I mutter under my breath and swipe left.

Blakey where have you been xxoo I’m hot and ready.

“Blakey has left the building,” I say and swipe left.

Now this is interesting. Somehow the woman who just bought my painting is inviting me to her place.

“Oh, hell no.” Hard swipe left.

What are you doing, Blake? In frustration, I put my phone away. This is my time. My coffee. The world is going to have to be put on hold. I’m recharging.

Two triple espressos later, I’m slightly wired and ready to walk off the caffeine. That’s when I see her.

“Damn.” This time I say it out loud. I know this because the woman with the two-year-old next to me gives me a raised eyebrow. She thinks I’m crass, or crazy. Either way, I don’t care.

The dark-haired woman with the blue eyes, alabaster skin, and sexiest pixie cut I’ve ever seen is getting away, and I need to find out who she is.

I throw ten dollars on the table.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” I say as I squeeze my way around the baby stroller and diaper bag. When I’m finally out on the street, my legs begin moving faster than they do when I’m on the treadmill at the gym. This woman has definitely caught my attention.

I come up short as I round the avenue, because she and a friend have stopped at a gallery window and they’re chatting. Now’s my chance.

“Interesting color palette,” I say as a conversation starter, but all I get are quizzical looks from both of them. “I mean, the choice isn’t what you’d expect. It’s a bit angry, don’t you think?”

Miss Pixie isn’t talking, it’s her friend who speaks up. “Yeah, there’s a definite disconnect in the color structure,” she says.

If I’m not mistaken, she’s batting her eyelashes at me. Could that be right? In my most nonchalant, non-committal tone I look at her and say, “You think?”

I don’t really care what she thinks, I just want to keep the conversation going in the hopes that ‘pixie dust girl’ will say something, and I can get her number. Instead, her friend whose- eyes are now busy taking a grand tour of my body keeps talking. But I -want her to shut up. I re-pose my question to pixie girl, “And what do you think?”

She looks at the painting, reflective as she purses her valentine-shaped, deep red, lips. Kissable lips.

“Hmmm…I’m not sure,” she says, “this one doesn’t speak to me at all.”

I’m instantly enamored. She’s right. This is a pile of shit masquerading as a painting. I look her in the eyes and try to engage her.

“I suppose art is personal,” I say.

She gives me that quizzical look again.

It’s clear I haven’t got her completely into my orbit, so I continue, “I mean, what we see, and what the artist intended for us to see, can be two different things.”

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