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“Sure. She’s demanding, but she’s a good boss.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a strand of hair I want to run my own fingers over. “And I’m learning a lot from her. She’s created such a successful gallery, and I want to do the same thing one day. It’s inspirational to work for her. You’ve been with the gallery for years, right?”
I nod. “Kristina’s represented me for a long time now. She’s good at what she does. And she doesn’t try to talk me into showing up to my shows in person, which is a plus.”
Sasha laughs, a sound I already want to hear over and over. “But imagine what a big deal it would be if you ever did show up.”
“Yeah, I’ll pass.”
She smiles and takes a sip of her tea, then gazes out the windows at the nature surrounding my cabin. “Itisincredibly beautiful here. I can see why you only leave when you really have to.” She exhales a gentle sigh. “I hope I find the same thing someday. A home I never want to leave, I mean.”
“I was lucky to find this place,” I say. “Can’t imagine living the rest of my life anywhere else.”
Sasha smiles at me again. Christ, the things her smile does to me. I’ve already memorized the exact shade of her lips, already started mixing paints in my mind.
I find myself taking the mug out of her hands, setting it aside. Standing up. Holding out a hand. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour.”
She looks at my hand, then looks up at me. “Thank you, but I really should get those paintings and get out of your hair. Kristina is expecting me back at the gallery.”
“You really want to get back on the road already? It’s a long drive.” It’s a reasonable point, but the fact is, I never said anything like this when Cory showed up to pick up my work in the past.
“It’s not that Iwantto get back on the road,” Sasha says, a light teasing in her voice. “But I should.”
“Let me at least show you around the property. If Kristina complains, you can blame me.”
Sasha chews softly on her bottom lip as she contemplates. “Okay. You can give me a tour. But then I’ll need to go.”
Outside, the fresh air greets us, and I lead us around my property, showing Sasha the myriad of sources of inspiration that I draw from for my paintings. None of my paintings are literal representations of the environment, but it informs my work on a deeper, visceral, emotional level. And I want her to see all of it.
“It’s hardnotto feel inspired,” Sasha says, turning from the view to look up at me. It would be so easy to kiss her right now, to capture those plush lips of hers.
“Do you paint?” I ask.
“Oh, God, no.” She waves the question away with a cute gesture of her hand. “I love art, and I admire people who are creative like that. But I just admire, that’s all. I got my degree in art history.”
I nod. “Every art historian has that one artist that started them down their path. Who’s yours?”
“Hilma af Klint,” she answers without hesitation.
I blink, surprised. Klint? Hell of an answer from a woman who looks to be at least fifteen years younger than me.
“You know her?” Sasha asks.
“Of course,” I say.
And then we’re off. Any concern that Sasha had about getting back to the gallery swiftly takes a back seat. Our conversation starts at Klint and Kandinsky, veers toward Paul Klee, takes a detour into cubism, which leads into Picasso’s sculpture, which opens into a lively discussion of modern sculpture and Yayoi Kusama.
This girl is fuckingsmart.She knows every artist I mention, and even names a few influences on my work I hadn’t recognized myself. We keep walking as we talk, eventually ending up sitting on the steps of my back deck, the rest of the world falling away around us.
As our conversation draws out into hours, it becomes easier and easier to imagine Sasha as a permanent part of my life.
It’s a fantasy I’ve never had before. Having a wife, I mean. But Sasha is just so damn gorgeous, sexy, sharp, and full of life. I can imagine her in my loft, tapping away on a laptop while I work on my paintings. I can see us in the kitchen cooking together, swaying as the radio plays. I imagine notebooks full of sketches of her, capturing her beauty as we spend day after day together. I can even see our wild-haired kids running around the yard.
I know the fantasy is just a fantasy. Sasha has her own life in the city, and at forty-two years old, I’m a goddamn fossil compared to her. For all that we’ve bonded over, we’re too different.
And yet I can’t let this connection pass me by.
We’ve been talking for hours now, and the afternoon sun has faded into the gold of early evening. She’s just said something apologetic about the time getting away from her, but I just shake my head, unable to handle the thought of letting her go. I need something, anything, to keep her here longer with me. Any kind of reason. Any excuse.
A few strands of hair have escaped from her bun. I tuck a loose strand behind her ear, letting my fingertips brush against her cheek, memorizing the exact shade of blush that blooms at my touch.
