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“Because sometimes inspiration strikes and I don’t have my laptop with me or it’s dead because I forgot to charge it, but I do have time to jot something down. Plus, writing on paper makes your brain work better. At least that’s what my friend Piper says.”
For a brief second, I think about asking her about her friends, but I’m still a little annoyed that we didn’t just take the stairs. I don’t like situations I can’t control, and I really don’t like confined small places, so I say nothing. Instead, I drop my eyes to the paper and let the pen move back and forth. I have no idea what I’m drawing, but the rhythmic motions do seem to be controlling my heart rate. That and the affirmations I am repeating in my head. Actually, they’re less affirmation and more one statement over and over again. ‘You will not die in this elevator. Not with her.’
“There’s actually been studies on that, you know?” she continues, and I wonder if she’s talking just to fill the silence. “That sometimes just the act of holding a pen or pencil helps with ideas. Piper watched a documentary on it and told us all about it. She watches a lot of documentaries. Hannah says that’s her one tendencies.”
This makes me look up. “Her what?”
A blush steals across Katie’s cheeks, and for a second, I think she could be cute if she wasn’t so frustrating. “It’s the enneagram. Hannah is obsessed with it.” She waves her hand as she changes the subject. “Never mind. Anyway, sometimes I think we’ve forgotten about the simple things that worked for so long.”
I think about telling her I know about the enneagram, but I’m not sure where that conversation might lead, so I stick to the safer topic. “Are you saying you wish technology didn’t exist?” I don’t look up as I pose the question, but when the silence stretches out, I glance at her. Her expression seems stuck between doubt and agreement.
“I don’t know. I think it has its good points and its bad ones. What about you?”
“Technology keeps me organized, so it has its uses. Plus, I think we might be out of a job without technology.”
“You wouldn’t be organized without it?”
I pause, realizing what I said. I don’t really remember a time when I wasn’t structured and organized except for right before the accident, but I do know that was when I pushed away any lack of structure. If I didn’t do anything spontaneous, there would be less chance of an accident occurring. At least that’s what I told myself, but I wasn’t sharing that with Katie. “I simply said it helps.”
She looks at me for a moment as if debating whether to push the issue. I let out a tiny sigh of relief when she veers the subject away from me and back to the original issue. “I think structure is okay, but not when it’s so strict that it causes you to miss out on the spontaneous gifts of life.”
“You mean like being trapped in an elevator with a coworker?”
I mean it sarcastically, but the corners of her lips twitch. “Maybe. Or like making someone’s day with a smile or a gift. If you plan that stuff out then it doesn’t feel as genuine.”
I open my mouth to respond, but at that moment, the lights become brighter and the car starts moving again. “Thank goodness.”
“See? I told you we wouldn’t be stuck here forever.”
“We take the stairs from now on,” I say, fixing her with a death stare. Then I tear the paper out of the notebook, fold it, and shove it in my pocket before handing the notebook and pen back to her. Her eyes linger on my pocket as she takes the items, and I can tell she wants to ask what I drew, but she doesn’t. I wouldn’t have shown her anyway.
The elevator reaches the ground level, and the doors whoosh open. I lead the way to my car, hoping that our excitement quota is filled for the day.
“This is a nice car,” Katie says as we approach my Prius. “Did you get it because it’s electric or…?” She lets the question fade into the air, and I wonder what she planned to follow it with.
“I purchased it for numerous reasons. It does save money on gas being a hybrid. I can charge it for short distances and use gas for longer drives or when a charging station can’t be found. There was also a tax break given with it, and it’s quiet.”
“You do seem to appreciate the quiet,” she says softly as she opens the passenger door and slides in.
If only she appreciated it more, I think to myself as I take my seat behind the wheel, but I keep that thought to myself. Working with her is imperative for the next few weeks, and there’s no reason to strain our relationship more than it already is.
The Painted Plate is situated downtown, snuggled between a coffee shop that never seems to have a lull and a clothing boutique that never seems to have a customer. How it manages to stay in business I don’t know. Maybe it does a lot of online sales. Thankfully, as it’s early, the traffic downtown is light, and I am able to find a decent parking spot without too much effort. I enjoy the feeling of downtown, but I abhor the parking situation.
Parallel parking could be uniform and orderly but too many people don’t know how to park in this town, and it ends up feeling like I’m one of Cinderella’s stepsisters trying to shove a foot that is too big into a glass slipper. The whole ordeal leaves me annoyed and feeling like a toy wound too tightly most days. Today is not one of those days.
A tiny bell jingles above the door, announcing our arrival as we enter, and a woman with frizzy red hair, bright green eyes, and some sort of colorful outfit that resembles a muumuu glances up at us.
“Welcome to The Painted Plate. Are you here to paint?” The woman’s voice is pleasant but as exaggerated as her outfit, and I force myself not to shrink back.
I shake my head at her question of the obvious. What else could we possibly be doing in the shop that looks very much like an artist’s studio? Plates of various colors and patterns hang on the walls, surrounded by murals, and the only tables in the room appear to be covered in dry paint that would probably take years to chip off. Unless she’s running some secret taboo business that requires a code word to enter, painting looks like all we can do.
“We are,” Katie answers. “We’ve never been, but we hear it is a fantastic experience.”
My head jerks at her use of the word “we.” It is true that I’ve never been here, but the use of the word “we” implies that we are together andwemost certainly are not.
“Wonderful. My name is Leslie, and I will be happy to assist you. Are you doing the couple’s paint?” Her eyes shift from Katie to me, obviously trying to figure out how we ended up together. Even strangers pick up on how different we are.
“No, we’re not a couple.” I have no idea what the couple’s paint is, but I’m imagining a scene similar to the pottery one from Ghost, and I want none of it.
