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Gramps
“Congratulations,Genesis.Thisisquite a turnout.”
Clusters of people mill around her works, studying them for purchase.
Woman should charge a lot more. I won’t point it out to her, though. I have interfered in her life enough.
“Thanks Gramps.” Genesis rises awkwardly to her feet. At eight months pregnant with her first child, I am surprised she can get up at all.
But she does, even rising on her toes to give this old man a kiss on the cheek.
I try not to smile as she says, “I know what effort it costs you to come to these things. Thank you.”
I drift my gaze around the room, looking at all the youngsters in their bright makeup and modern clothes. Genesis included. She has on some sort of purple tie-dyed t-shirt and dark-blue jeggings. She plaited her hair in what she calls ‘a mermaid braid’. Her husband is no better in his jeans and white Oxford.
Sheesh.
At least he has on dress shoes.
I huff out my faux frustration. “Yeah, well...I won’t come to the next one. I am getting too old for this.”
At least five invitations a month cross my desk for these artsy-fartsy productions. During my lifetime, only a handful have interested me enough to attend.
But for Genesis, I show up. Every time.
Family is important, and I support the ones I love.
That is why, in the heat of the summer, I am at a gallery in SoHo, here for Genesis’s second show. She has done well for the almost three years she has lived in New York. It took her a bit of time to get her feet wet in the art scene, and even longer to gain a following. But now...she is on top of the world.
And in this, I had nothing to do with it. She made it all on her own.
Ever the doting husband, Royce comes up and hands Genesis a bottle of water.
They are so much in love; it permeates the surrounding air.
I made a good choice in selecting her for him.
Granted, my plans could have gone seriously awry.
And how glad I am that they hadn’t.
Circling an arm around his wife’s ever growing waist, Royce says, “You aren’t giving her a hard time, are you Gramps?”
“Hell no, boy. Even I know better than to mess with Ms. Turner.”
“Mrs. Grayson,” she says, quick as a flash.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” I say, shifting my gaze past her like I really don’t care.
When in fact, I do.
I care a lot.
And I show it by sparring with her and Tiffany as often as I can. They keep me on my toes with all of their snappy comebacks. Makes me laugh. Keeps me young. Besides, I can’t let those women know I like them. All the fun I have with them would fly out the window.
If I have to give up spicy food, I at least need something to replace it.
Tiffany and Thomas come from around the corner to join us. At least they look like normal folk. Thomas is in a navy suit and Tiffany in a dress the same color.
