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“What are you, the police? An interrogator? My moving history has nothing to do with you; my sole purpose here is to paint a portrait." I heighten my volume. He stays quiet, burning holes into my skull with his icy blue eyes. He will fire me, and I don't care because he’s an arrogant, cocky son of a bitch.
"Criminals are not individuals I choose to collaborate with,” he proclaims.
“Excuse me?” my voice is strained.
“Thisis criminal behavior,” he stabs a finger into the papers on his desk.
"My actions are not criminal,” I declare with eyes narrowed.
We enter another staring match, but it ends when he forfeits and shoots up from his desk, “It’s too late either way. I need the painting by Monday. Give it to me, and be here on Friday by four. Dressfashionable,” he side-eyes my outfit, “After this whole thing, we don’t need to interact again.” He might be fed up with our conversation, but I'm not finished with him.
“Why do I need to move?” the question lingers. Evan swipes the papers from his desk and begins shredding them.
“The conversation is over.”
“Can’t you just stick me in one of the houses you own already, and I can pretend it’s mine?” I request. He shoots me a sarcastic smile.
“Right, let's pick one of the hundreds of homes I own and put you in there,” Again, his tone doesn’t match. “Evenif I did have a spare house for you, you don’t think the public would know it’smyhome?”
After a sigh, I retort, “Rent an Airbnb?”
“An Airbnb,” he echoes and waits for me to figure out why that was a terrible idea, “It needs to be your home, somewhere you live in and will continue to live in after the interview. Preserving my reputation is crucial; having the paparazzi spot you returning to your modest dwelling might lead to public disdain. I can't risk being vilified for not sharing my wealth with my artist. Now, if you could leave,” he motions to his office door.Walking toward the door, I pause with my hand resting on the knob.
Glancing back in his direction, "I'm not a criminal," I say, my voice above a whisper. The door closes with a soft click behind me, muffling the silence of his office.
The journey back to my place feels like a blur, the world outside a stark contrast to the intensity of Evan's office. When I step into the familiar embrace of my abode, a wave of disbelief washes over me. Questions arise, and I wonder if it has all been a hallucination.
“That couldn’t have been real. How did I get here?"I sighed, “By making many, many mistakes.” Of course, the first thing I catch sight of is him. Nabbing the image, I flip it around, planning to work on it tomorrow. My exhaustion prevents any further contemplation of him.
Chapter four
Whispers of an Unwanted Muse
Theparkisahealing place for me. The perfect spot to paint and capture spontaneous moments with only my memory and brushstroke. No stress to make it perfect or copy a person, a display, or a scene pixel by pixel like a printer. Simple art. The kind I liked to make. A girl and her dog. Friends playing frisbee. Leaves in the wind—the iconic skyline.
Strangers always praised me for being able to live off of doing what I love—not before discouraging my artistic career path, of course; I’d be another unsuccessful art drop-out like any other—but what everyone failed to tell me was I wouldn’t always love what I’d be painting. I wake in a cold sweat from a haunting nightmare starring the one and only. The seconds tick closer, an ever-present reminder I need to meet with him and hand over his portrait in an hour.
It is early in the afternoon, and I decided a park trip would be a pleasant, temporary distraction. After all, I spent my entire morning obsessing over his image, ensuring it was the best work I’d ever done.
It is time to go if I don’t want to be late. Still, I move to my car, organizing my supplies in the backseat before I slide into the driver’s seat. My hands are on the steering wheel, and my eyes observe straight ahead, his wrapped painting in the passenger seat.
Anxiety causes my stomach to lurch. It would be now if there were ever a time to wake up from a nightmare. It is surreal. The sound of my engine humming as it warms up is real, the cars surrounding me are real, and the winking glass of INNO CORP is real. As I approach the double doors, I see Avi waiting for me at the bottom of the busy lobby’s staircase.
“Finally,” he speaks, “I’ll be taking that, and here’s your pay. “He takes the painting and hands me a thin envelope. I don't have time to register the paper being shoved into my hands before he ascends the steps.
“W-wait, that’s it?” calling out to him. Avi waves his hand dismissively at me. That…is it. He dismisses me. I stand there, stupefied. Again, there is that terrible, aching feeling I despise—something like disappointment. Seeing him is something I'd rather avoid, and I'm relieved that I don't have to.
It is saddening that I feel the need to reassure andconvincemyself I don’t have some morbid desire to torture myself with his presence again. Thoughts like these worry me that anyone could
read my twisted mind. Embarrassment turns my blood cold, and I hurry to the partial comfort of my car. Returning home is an immediate priority. It's harrowing not being able to stop my wild mind from feeling every invisible pair of eyes latch onto me as I arrive at my residence building and establish the courage to leave my car.
Nestled under my covers in the comforting embrace of my familiar space, Evan Blackburn’s face is out of my home. However, he still lives in my mind, alive and well. He thought I was a criminal, for goodness’ sake!
From my jeans pocket, I retrieved the envelope Avi gave me. Six thousand dollars. Preparing for Friday occupies my thoughts as my fingers grip the check, causing it to crease under their pressure.
“Fuck, I need to go cash it. “If only I weren’t caught up in my shameful cloud, I wouldn’t have driven there first. I grab my keys, leave my dwelling, and jog to the small bank jammed between the corner of an intersection and the second floor of an unmarked building.
Two people stand ahead of me in line, waiting for their turn as I stand behind them. Then, the off-tune chime of the bank’s doorbell rings.
