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“I was sleep-deprived.” She glares. “I’m still sleep-deprived. I need rest if I’m going to do my best work.”
“You’re not doing your best work, only your good enough work. Get up.”
She slithers like an eel, wriggling away from me as she kicks the sheets away, and climbs off the bed. Her hair’s piled on the top of her head, messy from sleep, and she looks gorgeous in the shorts and t-shirt I gave her the night before.
“I just want to say that I’m out of bed, but I am very unhappy about it.”
“I hear you.”
“Good.” She stands, sighing. “I don’t feel like painting. Can’t I just say the muse isn’t speaking today?”
“Fuck the muse. I shot her in the skull. The muse is bleeding out. You’d better get used to working without her.”
She rolls her eyes as she stumbles into the bathroom. Once she’s ready, I walk her down to the studio. Each step seems to wake her up slightly more until she’s inside, facing her work again, the late afternoon light slanting in sideways through the window, the desert reaching out in all directions, red-brown-green.
“Fuck, I really like this room,” she says, ambling over to the canvas. She stalks around it, making little thoughtful noises, fingers on her lips.
“Well?” I stay back near the door, not wanting to invade her space. I worry that if I go fully inside, if I let myself become a part of her studio, then it’ll lose some of its magic.
And Ireallyneed that magic. She does too, even if she doesn’t understand why yet.
“It’s good,” she says at last, slumping down on her stool. “Did I really do this?”
“In a state of mindless delirium, yes.”
“Great. Get me more of that.” She picks up a brush and chews on the end, getting a little paint in her mouth. I grimace, disgusted, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “I did most of the hard stuff already. The mother’s the focus.”
“The mother?”
“Her.” She points at the woman standing up beside the sketched piano. Everything’s a ghost, except for her. “I’ll do the daughter next, then fill in the rest. The hard part is getting the light and the shadows right.” She keeps chewing on the brush end. What I would give to replace that with my—no, keep my head in the game, don’t get distracted.
“That sounds like a plan. You should get to it.”
But she’s already ignoring me, busy mixing paints, getting herself set up. I stay and watch for a little while. The world disappears when she gets in this state, and it’s incredible to witness, like a world-class athlete performing a motion they’ve done a million times to the point where the neural pathways are etched like ravines in their brains. Painting, for Hellie, looks like walking for other people. Natural, automatic, done with ease.
The girl’s in ratty clothes with drool stains next to her mouth, her eyes red and bleary, her hair a messy nest, and I’ve never seen someone so beautiful in my life.
It’s her talent. It’s her ability to switch on, just like that, filter out everything but the work.
I’m jealous and in awe.
But soon it’s clear I should leave her alone, even if I could stay there and observe every little motion, every grunt, every annoyed noise, every squeal of delight. She paints like a performance, even if it’s a performance only for her. I could watch her hands, her arms, her lips pressed together, her shoulders slumped as she leans over the canvas, sniffing the paints, almost licking them.
Instead, I tear myself away and go back to work.
* * *
“You have to eat something.”I knock on her door until she finally looks over. She looks like shit now. Ragged, burning out. Big bags sit under her eyes. She’s been painting for another six hours, and the daughter’s nearly done, the father’s outline coming into view, the piano taking shape. “And I brought you something to drink.”
“No alcohol,” she says, waving a brush at me. Gray paint splatters all over, not that she cares. I spot little marks all over, like she’s been waving her arms around. “I need to focus.”
“Tea,” I say. “Can I come in?”
Her head cocks as she chews on the brush again. “Why are you asking?”
“Because I want to respect your space.”
She snorts, rolling her eyes. So much for respect. “You own all this crap. Do what you want.” She turns back to the canvas, makes a mark, grunts in approval.
