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No, still in bed, I’ve just woken up. Awfully lazy, but then I’m not supposed to work today.
Dots appeared. Went away. Reappeared.That’s unfair.
What?
Making me think about you in bed. Bet it’s a verynice…bed.
It is.Maybe thiswasflirtation. Maybe it all had been, all along.I didn’t design the furniture but it is custom, from a friend whom I’ve worked with before. I wanted a style that would mimic waves and water.He threw in,My bedroom ceiling’s painted to be a night sky over water. When one’s looking up at it. On one’s back.
Okay no that’s EXTRA unfair.
You can think about that, if you’d like.
Oh, I AM. Thanks. Um, sorry, I’ve got to go help Mike with the lichen in like a minute…
Of course, go on.
…no, I want to know more about your bed! But. Working. This one came with a gif from a television show Devon did not recognize, an animated character doing a sad spreading of apologetic hands. Can I ask, and you can say it’s none of my business, you get to decide that, but real quick: you okay, this morning?
Devon ended up smiling. So tactful, so diplomatic.Yes, you can ask. And yes, I feel…surprisingly well. I think you helped. Thank you. Go assist your grad student with his lichen.
Will do! Glad you’re okay! Back in a bit!This message came with a heart emoji.
Devon stared at the heart. The heart stared back.
He did not know how to answer—he knew how hewantedto answer, but he wasn’t sure that either of them would be prepared for that outpouring of emotion—so he didn’t. But he got up, after a moment, and made cinnamon vanilla tea, in one of the dark grey mugs with the crimson flower-pattern this time.
He sent Burne a photo, no caption.
He did a short yoga session, nothing strenuous, only peaceful stretching and flexibility, out on his balcony.
He checked his email out of habit before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to be working. He in fact felt better having done so; he’d’ve been wondering, otherwise, about anything urgent. Not good for his blood pressure.
The routine helped. The assurances that those directors wanted him to stay on the historic hotel restoration, that they approved of his ideas. The short personal emails from a couple of them, asking how he was. Friends, he thought. Perhaps.
Another email suggested that Devon Lilian might be in consideration for some sort of award for Environmental Harmony in Architecture for that children’s museum with the garden. Devon poked at it, concluded that it required no effort beyond accepting the nomination on his part, and accepted. He’d liked that project.
He might or might not be able to get up on a stage. He’d worry about that when the time came. He’d done it before; he’d also not done it, before.
Not working, he thought. Relaxation. All right.
Burne had asked about breakfast. A balanced diet helped, and he liked cooking. Some mornings, if he had meetings, a hasty piece of toast or a protein shake happened. Today, lazily, leisurely, Devon found eggs and his last bagel, and made a proper bagel sandwich, low-sodium but with red pepper flakes, bell peppers, and avocado. It was not quite the same as a New York bagel—his mother’s family would have opinions—but it was, he decided, more than acceptable.
His house had several rooms—all one floor, except the garage, which was lower—that followed the curves of the hill and the original garden. He had his office, his bedroom, the large open living space with the enormous windows, one guest room, the pool and patio out back, and the room he sometimes used as a studio when playing with art for fun: sketches, floor plans of imaginary houses, watercolors, outright oil painting when he feltthatcommitted to an inspiration. He hadn’t done much of that last, lately.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to commit that much now, but he spent an utterly decadent morning and afternoon putting together a drawing and then a color-wash of the pier and the ocean, down below. Rushing waves, running ahead of the winds.
A slate-dark sky, with depth in granite gradients. Summer ebbing into fall, out on the water. Tiny colorful surfer-dots, in defiance of the end of a season. The frame of his own roses as a border around the lower edges of the drawing: fanciful, but part of his world, because he could breathe them in, scarlet and pink and velvet and luxurious.
He came back in for lunch belatedly. Burne had texted earlier, with regard to the tea:Looks like hot water to me! Kidding, it’s probably great.
Devon sent over a picture, not of the finished watercolor because it wasn’t, but of his initial sketch.Did some art. Just for me. Well, and for you. Since you and I get to see it.
Burne, no doubt back at work, did not answer. Devon let that go, found some improbable ramen noodles—when had he bought those? a grocery delivery gone wrong?—and some hard-boiled eggs, and made lunch.
Several hours and a mostly-done watercolor and a cleaning-up-of-paint later, Burne sent:hey, you up for a phone call?
Yes, of course.He’d been nearly finished throwing together a quick sesame sauce for dinner; that could wait. He put the bowl in the refrigerator.
