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“Hmm, let me think on that. I’m a foodie, always have been. So it’s hard to narrow down. But, if I had to pick one, it would be Fettuccine Alfredo. And yours?” I ask.
“Oh, that’s easy. It’s Korean food. We never ate out. My brother almost died when we were born, and my mother swore we’d have organic, home-cooked meals every day of our lives. We were allowed Korean food two to three times a year, once on our birthdays, and whenever our grandmother visited.”
I couldn’t have heard him right. “You’ve never had McDonalds? Arby’s? Chick-Fil-A?”
His velvety laugh overflows through his phone. I wish I could bottle it.
“Not until I went off to college. And let’s just say, it was like I was given the kingdom of candy land. I went crazy, eating everything and anything I could get my hands on thatwasn’torganic or all vegetables. I found a balance, eventually, but believe me, I love junk food.”
“Having a single mom, we were lucky to have food on the table some nights.” I realize I’ve given more of myself to Noah than I have to others. No one, not even Kate or my roommates, understands the poverty in which we lived in until I was ten years old.
He doesn’t know what to say, and I give him a bit more. “One day, my mom found out about a program to help single moms. She qualified, and we moved to a home in Bothell. They put her through school, and she became a nurse. In ten years, she owned the house, and was given a stipend.” It also paid for college for my sister and me, but I keep this part to myself. I feel like I’ve given more of my sob story than was necessary. But he’s easy to talk to.
“Do you get along with your mom?” he asks as if I’m really that interesting, but I’m not. But in it, he makes me feel special.
“My mom is crazy. But I mean that in the best way. She always, even in the hardest days, found a way to be our rock, or make our life fun, when in reality she was dealing on her own with our shitty lot in life. It was just her way. And yeah, I’m close to her. Tia is in college right now, and she goes home every weekend. They’re a bit codependent on the other, but I get it; it was just us three growing up after my dad passed away.”
He’s intently listening to every word I say. “You’re a good listener, aren’t you, Noah?”
He moves his eyes from one side to the other. “Hmm, I’ve never been told that before. I guess it depends on who’s talking. It’s easy with you because I find you fascinating.”
He finds me fascinating? I blush at his words. I push to my feet and move to my dresser to grab a bottle of water.
“Hey, go back. What’s on the wall?” he asks. I step back and realize he’s talking about my most recent project.
“Is that the bride painting you mentioned that was giving you grief?”
“Yeah, it’s the bane of my existence. I decided this one was speaking to me, asking that I use watercolors, but it’s almost like a completely different person is painting this versus what I typically paint. And this other person doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.”
I watch him intently as he nods his head. “I’m an abstract painter who sculpts people. I get it. Where I don’t want to give much details in my paintings, and leave it to the eye of the beholder, I love to capture lifelike images when I sculpt. I don’t think as artists, we need to put ourselves in one category. If that makes sense? But if you want my opinion, your painting is beautiful. The curves of her face, the way the fabric moves with the wind. Is she running from or to the wedding?”
I never gave it much thought. “I don’t know. Does it matter?” I ask.
“I think it does. All my art has a story. It may be my story, and no one may ever know it, but it gives me reason to continue with the piece of art I’m creating.”
Well, fuck me. “Shit. You may be onto something. No, scratch that, I know you are. Fuck, you’re a genius.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But you can say I’m sexy, and that would be true.” He grins, and his deep dimples show through. My hands ache to caress those sweet divots.
“You’re so fucking hot, Noah.” Shit, why did we both have to be so adult about sex? I’m horny, and I want him.
“Me? That’s all you, babe.”
And that’s the way the conversation continues until three in the morning when we both fall asleep, still on FaceTime.
* * *
I carefully removemy painting from the wall, transferring it back to my art desk. The woman I created in this water color is beautiful, but what’s her story? Noah was spot on. I sometimes have a scene in mind that tells me a little about what I want to paint. But I’ve never attempted to hinder my creative process into a single, linear approach. I’m optimistic that giving her a story will help me to develop this painting into something I’m proud of. Somethingright.
She’s not smiling, or at least smiling like a bride should on her wedding day. Is she forced into this marriage? It’s a present-day painting, but to say arranged marriages still don’t occur would be ignorant. Does she want to escape? Is she being the good daughter? My mind is telling me the story silently as I watch her. Did she have cold feet, but now is sprintingbackto her groom?
I take a quick look at my clock, and it’s nearing 11:00 a.m. It’s the second day in a row I’ve crawled out of bed and gotten stuck on this painting. But I’m confident I’m closer than I’ve ever been to knowing where to go with this.
I don’t have a chance to make these additions since I have to be to work at noon. I still have to shower and catch the eleven-thirty bus. My mind is buzzing at the idea of another potential payday.
All I think about as I’m getting ready is Noah. His caring nature sparks something inside of me. I’ve never been able to be myself with another man. On the inside, I’m that scared boy I was when we lived in the bad part of town, and everyone was bigger, meaner, and hurt me. It got better when my mom moved to a new area, and to a safer home. But the damage had already been done, and lowering my guard has never felt like an option until now.
* * *
