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¨Good evening.¨
I hear her before I see her face, only to realize she is greeting Benjamin, who has opened the car door.
Her dress is black, long, and elegant. I selected it the evening after we made love last. I wanted to see her in something sophisticated and regal.
Stepping in, her face is exquisitely made up with heightened lashes and a rosy lip. Her eyes have a brutal bite to them, so hard to read, but she places a smile on her beautiful face and asks, ¨Are you ready for this?¨
I swallow the lump in my throat. I have anxiety, but it’s hard to give it a source. One thing is for certain seeing her in a better mood has relieved quite a bit.
¨Honestly, I’m just happy you look well and ready.¨
¨Did you think I wouldn’t? By the way, you look great. Smell amazing too.¨ She’s extremely cordial, making me feel like she’s talking to a friend.
¨Thank you. You always look incredible.¨
I try not to shower her with too much. I need to be less creepy and more professional, even though taking her in the car right now would give me so much relief.
¨Well, thank you, Alex. I’m happy we’ve been able to do this for each other.” Placing her palm over my hand, she gives me a squeeze as Benjamin leads us on the way.
The photographers are crowded indoors as opposed to outside. There’s a serious line made of the art community from investors to the sculptors themselves. Many have chosen to dress in their own and often avant-garde styles, making my black and gray suit stand out, blessing me with a sense of importance. I look like the most professional person in this building, and according to the chants of ¨Alexander!¨, ¨Mr. Masters!¨ ¨Micola Costa!¨ that we hear, we are regarded as such.
After my hand receives an overkill of handshakes and my shoulder has been tugged enough, I find myself on a propped-up stage in the center of the lobby room. Rows of ivory-colored metal chairs face me as people begin to sit.
Micola isn’t around. Somehow she’s floating around out there, and that’s when I see him.
Simon.
And seeing him means seeing her as his hand is on Micola’s shoulder. His mouth close to her ear, and the way her eyes are both dim and glossy makes my nostrils flare.
If I could yell across the room without looking like an insecure man, I would. Simon is dressed in a sleek blue suit, one that seems to match his eyes. This man definitely has a plan, and if it doesn’t involve Micola, I know it’s a downright lie.
I try to will her to me. Does she not see me over here? Neither of them cares that people are finding their seats. There is a vacant chair beside me strictly for Micola.
I rub my chin and nod to the first couple rows of people that make up the contributing artists. Eager and zealous, they compliment each other between nervous laughter and posing for photographers. But my anger quickly gears up when I spot a couple photographers clipping pictures of Micola and Simon bantering as if they’re planning a lovers’ getaway.
I beckon my assistant, Carl, who automatically acknowledges the angry wonder on my face.
¨Should I bring her to the stage?¨
Even his instincts see what’s going on. I nod as he jogs toward the flirtatious pair in the back corner of the room.
Without even taking a glance up at me, she acknowledges Carl and precedes to chat with Simon. Actually, it is Simon who looks in my direction first before planting his plotting blue eyes on me. He snickers, rubbing his palms together and nodding in agreement with whatever Micola finds so damn necessary to be talking about right now. My hands get sweaty as my publicist heads behind the podium and clears her throat.
Finally, Micola drifts toward the stage, moving down the center aisle with Simon right beside her. He dips into an aisle as Micola finally lifts her eyes and locks them with mine. They are as cold as they are unreadable, but she sets an awkward smile upon her face as she takes her chair beside me.
Did she forget she has consequences for exhibiting this sort of behavior? If any day I am to be treated like a god, then damn it, it needs to be today. Her hand is clammy as it finds itself in my grip, as if she remembers there are consequences and wants to make it all better.
¨Good afternoon, art community of London and beyond. We are so thrilled to see you gathered here today for this most anticipated moment in sculpture history.¨
Ugh, and right at this moment, Simon leans forward in his row. He taps on Panther Duke’s shoulder. Dressed in green militia-style attire, Mr. Duke wears a pair of gray-tinted glasses. He tilts back as Simon whispers something funny. It has to be funny because now Mr. Duke is trying to contain his chuckles as his body tickles with laughter. I wish I could throw something upside Simon’s head. I have yet to get that much emotion out of Panther Duke.
“Simon’s such a jokester,” Micola utters with joy.
I bite my tongue. Zeroing in on the back of my publicist, I have no choice but to ignore whatever feather is tickling their asses. It is time for me to go speak. Time for me to announce this one-of-a-kind sculpture museum, Carvel.
Small talk comes very easily but increasingly difficult when something serious has my attention. The many folks I must thank, the sculptors I congratulate, and the public I must treat with kindness. It’s draining and feels longer than a dreadful test. I find my eyes always fighting through the crowd to get a glimpse of Micola. And eighty percent of the time, she is right by Simon’s side.
She technically can’t be right by my side all the time. We didn’t open Carvel; I did. But mingling is what she’s supposed to be doing, partaking in small talk with others and not whatever side date I’ve been observing.
