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He tilts his head, a slight eyebrow raised, revealing curiosity. "What are you thinking when you paint someone? How do you decide which colors to choose for the highlights?"
I dip my brush into the paint, "Well, for your hair," I mix a bit of indigo into the black, "I've chosen this shade. It complements your raven locks' natural sheen and subtle highlights." My bristles glide over the canvas, mimicking the curves of his hair.
"My skin?" He asks, his voice softer, almost in a whisper.
"You have a smooth complexion, zero blemishes. It's rare."I reply, my brush crafting the olive undertone of his ear. "Sometimes the lines of the brush can be a bit harsh for such skin."
A smile tugs at his lips, "Is that your way of saying I've made it difficult for you?"
A grin forms on my face, "Every challenge is an opportunity, Mr. Blackburn. You've given me plenty."
Of course, I’ve had gorgeous clients before…however, this man is quite intimidating. Suddenly, my confidence wavers as I chastise myself with each mistake, every color that requires a re-swatch, and every trembling in my hand.
His gaze.It isn’t my fault his gaze is so—again, I peek from my easel. So dismissive. Since the last peek, only the dangerous glint in his eyes remains in my memory. Yet, pretending to add something to the painting, I steal another look. Never would I ever have thought I’d be illustrating someone so handsome, so austere, soforeboding—
“There's a meeting on my schedule.” He suddenly pushes himself up from his chair and saunters towards the door.
“Wait, I’m not done—”
“Finish it later,” he cuts me off.Slam.Gone.
“What…the fuck?” Gathering my supplies, a huff escapes me. Relief outweighs my anger. Evan Blackburn. The wealthy CEO of the world’s most famous invention submission corporation is being painted by me, a starving artist.
“To promote publicity,” my teeth grit. No way some asshole billionaire hired a local artist from the kindness of his heart. Well, I supposehedidn’t. He made that very clear by the distaste in his voice when his assistant introduced me as his portrait artist. They hadn’t gotten my name right. ‘Bello Garcy,’ the assistant voiced.
“Isabella Garcia,” I hissed through smiling teeth. Sure, I got a disapproving glance, but it was my name, and that was the least they could get right. Packing up is completed. Now what? Do I leave? Stay? Set up an appointment for another time? With this kind of service, how they keep the company up and running is a mystery. A vague return time for tomorrow was all I could manage to drag out. So, for the time being, I return to my cramped studio flat and flop down on my twin–sized bed. Kicking off the bits of colorful, dried pigment from my feet, the scratched floors under my easel are covered. Unfinished paintings and commissions in progress stare back at me.
“Ugh,” I sigh and roll to face the gray wall, “Maybe I should pick up a side gig,” I murmur. Commissions almost don't fit into my schedule, or perhaps the motivation for them is lacking. The hours of staring at that same bland spot on my wall could double.
It is already a miracle I’d kept up with my orders, and now I have to set them aside to focus onMr. Blackburn,head ofINNO CORP.I can’t be too mad, the pay is fantastic. Five thousand dollars for one masterpiece. That's the most I’ve been paid for any of my work.
Sinking into my pillow, I feel sleep dragging me into a comforting dream, “A ten-minute nap won’t hurt,” my words are not decipherable, and my prolonged yawn doesn’t help, but I couldn’t care less as I close my eyes and fall asleep.
***
My ten-minute “nap” turns into ten hours. The A/C stuck at sixty degrees causes me to wake up shivering and grabbing at my blankets to wrap myself in. Huffing hot air into the makeshift igloo, my tingling hands and feet start regaining sensation.
“Wait, what time is it?” The idea of leaving my warm fortress to grab my phone from the desk makes me cringe. Tempted as I am to risk missing my appointment by going back to sleep, the uncooperative A/C unit won't be what keeps me from five thousand bucks. Taking a deep breath, I crawl out of bed and reach for my phone. After grabbing it, I pivot on my heel against the freezing ground, then quickly jump back under the covers. That's not something I'll repeat. After I take a moment to heat my blanket’s small bubble, I click on my phone.
“Six–twenty,” I read the time out loud. A second passes, “Holy shit!” Wrestling with my blankets, I manage to throw them off and dash to the lavatory.
All that's clear to me is that Mr. Blackburn’s assistant instructed me to be there before eight. It was the only time he was available, and I am not the best at time management.
Spending a few extra minutes in the washroom, my hair gets washed and combed into a neater ponytail than yesterday's. Apparently, they didn't see the artsy charm of my messy bun. It's about to be seven when I emerge from the shower.
“Oh God, it’s cold,” I complain, but fight through the conditions to reach my dresser. The first thing I see is what I grab. A mid-length, plain, black dress “with pockets.”
I beam and stick my hands in them for my own satisfaction. Slipping on my worn black and white flats, I snatch my 'clean' apron and load my hefty basket with paints, brushes, palettes, and the like.
The assistant insisted they kept the canvas at the office, which, I admit, bruised my ego. Do they not trust the artist to keep it safe? With my teetering and constant dropping of supplies I had to scoop up, I begrudgingly agreed with his choice.
Sliding into my second-hand Kia, I join the throng of cars on the road, fingers crossed to make it on time. Seven-forty. Twenty minutes before eight isn’t too bad, enough time to set up if they don’t leave me waiting in the lobby like before. Still, the assistant, or “Avi,” as stated on his name tag, glared at me through the harsh reflections on his glasses. It had either escaped my notice the first time, or I had brushed it off as a petty act of revenge for his mispronunciation of my name.
“It’s seven-forty-five,” Avi declares.
“Before eight,” I beam. A long exhale leaves him as he leads me back to the room I was forced to tolerate yesterday.
“He’ll be in soon,” Avi expresses, closing the door. There is nothing for me to do now except set up and wait. Without my phone, I’d have no idea what time of day it is. Or night. Opting for silence, I remain quiet. Aiming to come across as more prepared and professional, I organize my brushes and take a closer look at yesterday's work.
