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Returning to my studio, I spot my neighbor Alejandro squatting in front of the door of his studio, rifling through a messenger bag as if he’s lost his keys. He glances up as he hears me coming.
“Hey, Skyler,” he says, smiling. He’s in his midforties, I’ve guessed, with short curly black hair and craggy but appealing features.
“Hi... Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, I was just making sure I packed my phone.” He pats the outside of his bag. “By the way, a guy was looking for you a few minutes ago, trying your door.”
My heart does a funny skip. No one ever stops by to see me unannounced. In fact, no one ever stops by to see me, period.
“That’s really weird.”
Alejandro rises to stand. “He said he was with your gallery,” he adds. “My age, white, dark brown hair?”
I let out my breath. It sounds like it had to have been Josh, paying me an impromptu visit for a reason I can’t imagine.
“Oh, okay.”
“Maybe you can catch him,” he continues. “He asked for the men’s room, and I told him it was on seven.”
“Right, thanks for letting me know.”
“No problem. Have a nice night, Skyler.” As Alejandro strides toward the elevator, I make a beeline toward the end of the hall, hoping I can catch Josh. As I reach the stairwell door, I feel a weird little flutter. Has he dropped by as a friendly gesture, curious to see my studio, or is it more than that? He’s always been so attentive the few occasions I’ve met him, and for the first time I wonder if he might even be interested in me romantically, though the chances of that seem infinitesimal.
But then my thoughts veer in another direction. What if he really hated the new collage and wanted to break the news to me in person?
The stairwell is as dank and smelly as I remember from the one other time I used it, and I hold my breath as I hurry down the stairs and shove open the door to the seventh floor. It’s completely silent. I guess many of the tenants on this floor don’t hang around after six o’clock either.
I cover the length of the corridor and turn left onto a shorter one, at the end of which is the men’s room, right below the ladies’ one flight up. I pause a few yards away, so if Josh emerges, it won’t feel like I’m intruding on his privacy. Maybe he’s already left, I think, but the silence is suddenly broken by the sound of running water from inside the bathroom. A couple of seconds later, pipes clang forlornly and then stop. So does the running water.
I wait. A minute. Two minutes. It’s going to be embarrassing, Irealize, when he emerges and discovers I’ve been lurking out here the whole time. I probably should have stayed upstairs and phoned him from my studio. I back up a few feet and call out his name, so that he’ll assume I came downstairs only seconds ago.
Another minute passes, and then another, and no one exits the bathroom. I’ve clearly missed Josh, meaning the sounds must have been emanating from the bathroom on the floor above or below. Or some guyisin the bathroom but isn’t coming out for some reason.
The whole thing is starting to make me uneasy, and I take off back to the stairwell entrance, then mount the steps two at a time. Once I’m inside the studio, I snatch my phone off the counter and tap Josh’s number.
“Ah, there you are,” he says over the sound of traffic, indicating he’s on the street already.
“Sorry, I must have just missed you,” I say. “I looked for you on the other floor, but you were already gone.”
“Wait, I’m not following, Skyler.”
“My studio neighbor told me you dropped by, so I went to look for you.”
“Hmm. I tried your cell a minute ago, but I didn’t come by the studio. It must have been someone else.”
16
Now
WITH THE PHONE STILL PRESSED TO MY EAR, I STEP TOWARDthe studio door and quickly turn the lock so that the dead bolt’s in position. If it wasn’t Josh, then who was at my door?
“Could it have been someone else from the gallery?” I ask. “My neighbor said the guy told him he worked there. He was in his early forties, brown hair.”
“I think your neighbor must have misunderstood,” Josh says. “I’m the only one at the gallery who fits that description, and I wasn’t there today. Anyway,” he adds, “the reason I called you is that I’ve got great news. A reporter fromArtTodayis doing a feature on contemporary collage artists, and he wants to talk to you.”
“Oh, wow, thatisgood news,” I say, smiling. This will be the first time I’ve had any public recognition for my artwork—and thoughArtTodayis online only, I know it’s widely read.
“Do you have time this week for an interview?”
