Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“I’d like to specify now, while you think the worst of me, that I don’t usually drink this much. It was just such an awkward evening. I mean, I talked about your butt in front of a group of strangers, so put yourself in my shoes.”
“To be fair, you didn’t have to talk about my butt,” he says as we walk into my room and he flicks on the light.
We stop in the threshold together for a moment, letting our eyes adjust to the brightness. I follow his line of sight to see he’s staring at the framed newspaper clipping we were sent as a wedding gift. I still have it propped on my nightstand behind my lamp.
“I thought it was a cute memory,” I explain. “Don’t get any other ideas.”
“Ideas?”
“Yeah, like I’ve put you next to my bed so I can go to sleep staring at you.”
He nods. “Don’t worry—I know the score. If anything, you put me there because my image bores you right to sleep. Best eight hours you’ve ever gotten.”
I grin up at him.
“Well, now you’ve seen me to my room, off you go.”
I turn to walk toward my closet, and once I arrive there, I’ve completely forgotten what I was meant to be doing. I turn in a slow circle, studying the clothes for a stalled thirty seconds before snapping my fingers.
“Pajamas,” I say aloud before tugging open a drawer and taking out one of the two pairs I own.
It’s a white silk set: shorts and a tank. I undress quickly, trying and failing to hang up my cocktail dress before giving up entirely and making it a problem for Morning Elizabeth. Then I unclasp my bra with a shiver of delight. Bras really are the work of the devil.
Once I slip into my pajamas, I head back out into my room, drawing to a quick stop once I see that Walt’s still standing at the door.
“Oh,” I squeak. “Did you see all that?”
“Just shadows. You could have turned the light on, you know. It would have made it easier for you, I’m sure.”
I glance back to confirm my closet is pitch black. Then with a mocking pointer finger and squinted eye, I tell Walt he’s a smart cookie.
“Well, you might as well come in,” I add. “Are you like a vampire? Not allowed to enter until I explicitly invite you?”
He steps inside, his shoes the only sound in the room as they tap against the wood floor. The atmosphere is markedly different than it was only a second ago. He’s been in here before, but only once, and not like this. I swallow past the feeling of anticipation as he drags a hand through his hair and glances around, eyeing all of my things.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d assume you’ve lived here for months, not just weeks.”
I try to look at the space through his eyes, and it’s true. It is rather cluttered.
“Yes well, I do know how to make myself at home.” I nod toward the sketches I’ve put up on one of the walls. “Don’t worry, there’s just painter’s tape on the back, holding them up. It won’t leave marks when I take them down.”
“It’s fine. I really don’t care,” he says, walking toward them.
Panic spikes my blood. He’s going to look at them. Oh joy.
It’s like with every step he takes, he peels back another layer of my skin, exposing me.
Having someone new look at my art never gets easier. I could be told I’m the world’s greatest artist a hundred times over and I’d still hang in suspension—just like this—waiting for approval.
“These are really good,” he says after a long moment, pointing to one in particular.
It’s a quick sketch of a man I encountered at Washington Market Park. He was feeding pigeons from a bag of old bread. I liked the way his shoulders drooped and his head bent, following the arc of his spine like the letter C. In the drawing, I used one continuous line so the linear perspective is stripped and his form takes on a more geometric shape.
“Cézanne would be proud,” he adds, before moving to study another sketch.
I laugh like he’s ridiculous. “Yeah right.” Then I realize what he’s just said. “How do you know so much about art, anyway?”
“I don’t,” he insists.
“That’s a lie. A layperson would never have known that was a cubist drawing. Or if they did, they would have attributed it to Picasso, not Cézanne. But Cézanne was the real inspiration behind cubism. The movement was actually named after one of his paintings, so…” I narrow my eyes. “How did you know that?”
He leans closer to another one of my sketches, studying it intently. “I like art.”
“Just looking at it? Or do you like creating it too?”
“I made my parents an ashtray out of clay when I was five. Does that count?”