Chapter Six
I was a nervous wreck the next morning. The director had emailed me to let me know a Lee was stopping by. To get numbers, take notes, do measurements. That he wouldn’t be long. He wasn’t coming until the late morning. Hours after I’d been awake. I managed to do most of my morning routine. Work out, shower, today was the day that I mopped the floors and I did that. Besides, doing an extra little sweep around the studio to ensure nothing embarrassing would pop up. Hiding my few erotica books, tucking the gag under my pillow.
After my shower, I got redressed in black slacks, a black turtleneck. Likely I’d be too warm by the end of the day, but I wanted to be covered up. Besides, black-on-black felt more artiste.
And after that I just paced. Unable to settle into work, or even reading or anything else. I doodled a little. Sitting on my couch, watching the sidewalk. Never actually finishing anything. Nervously ate a handful of almonds while standing in my kitchen, looking out the window onto the alley.
Finally, my door buzzed and I flew to it. Unsure of what it was even going to be but hoping to get it over quickly.
“It’s Lee from Zeck’s!” he called.
“Yu-huh,” I agreed stupidly and buzzed him up.
Vibrating in the doorway I watched a stranger come down the hallway.
“‘Lo, ‘lo,” he called cheerfully.
I let him in, and began to chatter. Offering water and the like.
“Firstly,” he said, holding out his hand to shake. “Simply lovely to meet you, Nika.”
I stopped, shaking his hand. Noticing then what a looker he was. Not necessarily my type beyond the breadth of his shoulders. Younger than what I was usually attracted to. But he was interesting. If I were casting a nineties metal band I’d hire him, certainly. Hair long and dark enough to be almost black. Muscle shirt, black jeans, tattoos from his chin down.
“Thank you,” I said, releasing his hand.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be quick. This is mostly just taking stock of sizes of frames and stuff so they can start laying out gaffer tape and so that I can start pondering on a lighting scheme. I ain’t going to take up your whole day. If you just show me a stack you don’t even have to hang if you don’t want to,” he said.
“Mmm, thanks,” I said. Honestly sort of set at ease by his shrugging nonchalance. “But if you don’t mind me hovering, I will. I don’t know… Well, don’t tell anyone but I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You don’t have to know shit,” he said. “All you have to do is make art. And you make good art.”
I laughed, moving him back toward the outside wall that I’d stacked the portfolio work on. Letting him go through that. He pulled a spiral bound notebook out of his back pocket. Seeing the wear in his jeans from the rectangle always back there. Taking notes.
“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat. “This could be totally inappropriate, but I’ve been following your work forever. It’s friggin’ sweet you’ll be at Zeck’s.”
“Thank you,” I said, touched but still giggling nervously. “You mean like the webcomic years?”
“Well yeah… But hey, uh… Indulge my curiosity,” he said, standing back upright. Hooking his thumbs into his belt loops and rocking back and forth in his boots. “Were you also… I mean, this would have been way back when and if you don’t want to answer you don’t have to… but were you also UsernameUnknownDoll?”
I coughed and instantly blushed.
“Oop, sorry, don’t even–” he said, raising a palm and turning back to work.
“No, I uh… I was but I’m just surprised you knew. I kept that work separate from this work,” I said.
“You did. You absolutely did. My friends and I followed you back in school. And uh… You know how sometimes someone’s writing style is too distinctive for them to use a pen name? We just had this conspiracy theory that Streets of Maplewood was UsernameUnknown and… I still could win a lot of money on that bet,” he said.
I laughed again. Watching him crouch and look closer at a canvas. Hands dangling comfortably between his knees.
“How much will you win?” I asked.
“Two fiddy,” he said. “Which is a lot for me.”
“Well, you best go collect it after this,” I said.
He cheered triumphantly, raising his fists over his head. I laughed.
“Hey, there’s one other thing I want to show you… Tell me what you think about this,” I said, nodding toward my bedroom. I hadn’t taken down the triptych, but I’d let Lee see it and see what he said, if he also thought it would be a good central piece.
He followed me into my bedroom, somewhat hesitantly. I didn’t have a door or anything, just a room divider. I was surprised at him but moved on. Gesturing toward the piece.
“For that big back wall?” I asked. “You know, if you are standing in the doorway of Zech’s you’ll see this first?”
He went closer, head tipped. Hair spilling over his shoulder. Hands still hanging from his belt loops. His skin almost looked black with the density of his tattoos. He stood with his hips forward, his shoulders rolled to his chest. Then tipping his chin up, taking it all in.
“I think you’re definitely right,” he said, nodding briskly. Pulling a tape measure of his belt.
I leaned on my bureau, watching him work. I liked all the wear on his jeans. Rectangle on one back pocket from his notebook. A circular wear in his left hip pocket. I was guessing from its circumference it might have been a chew tin. But he wore his jeans tight enough I could see it wasn't there today. Maybe he quit. I liked that he didn’t wear a watch. I liked that he seemed to have torn his own sleeves off. Sort of surprised that the gallery sent him out dressed like that. But why else go into a creative field if not to wear exactly what you wanted? I thought. He had at least three silver necklaces on, but whatever hung from the chains were tucked under the neckline of his tank. I hadn’t been sure at first, but I caught the hint of a ball piercing in his tongue. I was sure when I saw that when he was thinking and working he’d mindlessly tap it against his upper teeth. A gentle little porcelain toktok sound as he scribbled.
We went back out to the front room afterward. He finished a few things up. Asking me how attached I was to my frames. I really liked buying frames second hand. The dingier and cornier the better. But I shrugged.
“No, you’re right,” he grinned at me. “These gross ones are the right ones for the pieces.”
I sighed.
“You’re the artist,” he said, tipping his head down to catch my eye. “Your say goes. You can be a little bridezilla bitch, if you want.”
I laughed.
“That’s not really me,” I said.
“Regardless. It’s your show. You say what that show is. And it’s going to be great,” he said.
“Thanks man,” I said. Feeling it very sincerely all the way into my toes.
We headed back toward my front door.
“Hey,” he said, hand on the door knob. “If I manage to collect that bet… Can I treat you to drinks on it?”
“Um,” I said.
“That was so un-fucking-professional,” he sighed. “I’m sorry, don’t even–”
“No I uh… I don’t drink… Um,” I stuttered.
“Sushi then?” he asked, teasing. “Or you know, you can tell me to fuck off too, that would be entirely appropriate on your part.”
I reached around him, pulling his notebook out of his back pocket. Seeing him be startled by my physical forwardness. I pulled the little pen he had tucked into the spirals out. Quickly jotted my number on the first blank page. Tucking it snugly back in his back pocket without copping a feel.
“No promises,” I said. “But I’d at least like to know if you manage to beat the money out of them.”
He smiled again, wider this time. Devilish, almost.
Once I’d gotten him out, I leaned against the door. Went back to my desk. Trying to settle into work. Doing well and cranking along assiduously for over an hour.
What was the point of that? I asked myself.
No point, I answered.
Then why did you do it?
I’m not married… He’s hot. He’s nice.
Killian is hotter. And nicer.
Too nice.
Fuck. I rolled my shoulders. To be fair though, Killian and I agreed at the outset we weren’t exclusive. Though neither of us seemed to be looking. Either for more sexual partners or possible romantic partners. I certainly wasn’t. I was tentatively taking a break from men. So why did I give Lee my number? To put a wedge between Killian and I? I didn’t even want more sex or dates or anything. So why was I bothering? Especially with a man who was well aware of my past work. Presumably a follower, or maybe even someone I’d made content for! I wouldn’t know unless he told me so.
I tapped my chin. Went back to work for a while longer. Trying to lose myself in the noodling. Which I did. I could always lose myself in the details. Turning a regular old brownstone into a cupcake of curlicues and curtains.
I worked well for several hours. Took a break to grab a substantial-ish lunch, since breakfast had been almonds. Rolling the leftover chicken Killian had made into a lettuce cup and eating it standing over the sink and watching the alley again.
My across-the-way neighbor was a not terribly good deli, with two apartments over it. I liked watching the pretty girl who seemed to work the early-morning to early-afternoon shift at the deli. She’d come out about this time of day to have a cigarette. The man who lived on the top-most floor smoked out his window at approximately the same time. I’d watch her lift her nose and sniffsniff, trying to find the other cigarette. I wondered if she recognized the brand, or if they smoked the same thing. Thought of calling out to her, look up! so that her mystery would be solved.
Lee had remarkably nice teeth if he did indeed use chewing tobacco. Maybe that worn round spot in his hip pocket was actually for a tape measure, not a tin. It seemed like a remarkably unhealthy idea to use tobacco and have a tongue piercing. Thinking of that toktok…toktok sound of the steel hitting his teeth. Watching the delicate way his tongue lifted and started taptaptapping.
“Fuck,” I sighed.
I called Conchata.
“I’m evil,” I announced.
“That seems rather dramatic,” she said. “But tell me what you did, and I’ll decide whether or not you need an exorcism.”
“The guy from the gallery came over, and he’s nice and hot, and I gave him my number,” I said.
“That is… Not evil,” she said.
Then she sighed heavily.
“You know,” she said. “You don’t have to sabotage what you have with Killian. You can just be a goddamn grown up and talk with him. Voice your concerns. Or break up like a fucking intelligent adult. You can be such a cruel child sometimes.”
“Ouch,” I said.
Waiting to feel triggered about being called a child. Because it was so often the accusation leveled at me by the asshole. But Conchata was right. I was being both immature and cowardly.
“But also… How hot?” she asked. “After all… You aren’t exclusive.”
We talked and laughed a little bit. She made me feel bad and then made me feel better. Which she was always good at.
“I’ll leave you alone,” I said finally.
“Just think,” she admonished.
I could practically hear her tapping her temple furiously.
“I know,” I said.
I took my walk to the fruit and veg stand after our talk. Walking with headphones in but nothing playing. I usually did that. For safety's sake but also to be left alone. Though I liked hearing everything around me. Other people’s conversations as they walked by and traffic and yelling.
“Hey, Tonio,” I said, walking into the almost closet-sized inside to pay at the counter.
“You still on your kiwi-for-breakfast kick?” he asked. “Because I ain’t got good ones, so don’t nag me.”
“No,” I said.
I’d rather soured on that particular meal after heaving up violently green bile in the gallery.
“I have two good figs then for you. Better-for-you breakfast anyway,” he said.
“Tally me up,” I said.
My phone buzzed as I was paying. Once I’d stepped back outside, I leaned against the wall beside a lovely mountain of green apples, staying out of the traffic on the sidewalk and out of the other shopper’s way.
Part one was sent to me by an unknown number. Then a picture of a tattooed hand holding a fifty dollar bill that someone had scribbled fuck you on.
I laughed. So this must be Lee. With the first of his ill-gotten gains.
Good work on the collections, I sent back.
Adding him into my contacts and wandering slowly back home. Feeling by turns both giddy and devastated.
Right before I was going to bed that night, Lee sent me another photo of a fistful of cash. I laughed, settling into my blankets.
You really know how to woo a girl, I said.
Filthy cash pulled from another man’s boots is what all women want… Right? he replied.
It’s working on this one, I said.
Lee called me when I was about three hours into a page.
“Whatcha up to?” he asked in a wheedling tone.
“Being productive,” I said. “You?”
“Very grown-up of you,” he said. “I’ll be in your hood this evening to drop off some shit for work. Sushi? Pizza? Falafel? Chicken and waffles?”
I laughed.
“All right,” I said, still chuckling. “Know that bistro that's two blocks north on the opposite side of the street as my building?”
“Ferdon’s,” he said, unerringly.
I was sort of impressed he knew.
“Right,” I agreed slowly.
“Man, I love this city as much as you do. And I fucking love to eat. I can tell you every restaurant and their hours for twenty-four square miles,” he said, chuckling over my surprise. “Although I think I’ll have to wear sleeves in there,” he added musingly.
“At least a polo,” I said.
“Do I seem like a man who owns a polo?” he asked, sounding disgusted.
“No,” I agreed.
“I’ll be passable, don’t you worry, babygirl,” he said.
I went cool over ‘babygirl’ but moved on with the conversation.
“So?” I asked.
“Half past seven about work?” he asked.
“Sure,” I agreed.
I showed up precisely at seven thirty and was quite proud of myself for not doing my usual nervous too-early arrival. He was lounging outside, waiting for me.
“Oh, lovely,” he called, lifting himself up off the brick wall he was leaning against.
Still wearing dark colors. But he had actually pulled out a button up. And it was buttoned all the way up. Which was rather a shame. He looked great with an expanse of chest visible. But I also liked how it only sort-of, half-hid his tattoos. His hands and fingers were covered in ink. What was visible of his wrists was obviously done. Half-understood pieces disappearing under the collar of his shirt.
We walked in together and were seated. Chatting passingly about our work days. Sitting and ordering drinks. I wondered if he didn’t get alcohol in deference to my saying I didn’t drink. I didn’t care if other people did or not. I probably should have told him as much. But while I was having a perfectly lovely time with him, and he was charming in the extreme, I didn’t think I’d be doing a repeat of tonight.
And it wasn’t bad. In part because I didn’t really care about anything. So it was easy to be casual, and laugh and be open. Because I was still getting the distinct impression that I probably wouldn’t see him again after tonight.
He was smart, and he was artsy and had good opinions. Not that we agreed on everything but that he could argue it without being an asshole. We talked a lot about graphic novels. Of course, I asked if he himself was an artist. And he said that was what he’d gone to school for. And tried a little bit of everything– music and sculpture and paint and film. He said that while he enjoyed creation, he didn’t have the knack of creating. Specifically citing a lack of discipline or staying power.
“At the end of the day,” he said, shrugging. “I’m a kid who likes to finger paint. I like trying new things, I like getting dirty and having fun. I don’t like learning. I don’t like practicing. I don’t like having to try. I hate getting up every day and grinding. So I’m shit at everything I try. But hey, I’m having a good time.”
“I feel like if you find the right thing it doesn’t feel like practice or a grind,” I said. Thinking about how the most right feeling I had was having a pencil in my hand.
“How long you sit at your desk per day?” he asked.
“Between six and nine hours,” I said immediately.
He laughed.
“And I bet it used to be more than that, back in the day,” he said.
“Oh, yeah. Easily. I used to do five or six. Sleep for an hour. Do another six or so,” I said.
“It shows,” he said.
A waiter came over, taking our order. I felt Lee shifting closer to me afterward. The toes of his boots hitting mine, his knees almost touching mine under the intimate round table.
“You do good work,” he said.
“Well… Thank you,” I said.
“What's the sense in being humble?” he asked.
“Well I– I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s humbleness… It’s… I know how hard I work, it doesn’t come easily. It’s not inborn talent it’s just… A willingness to keep at it,” I said.
“Then isn’t that even more reason to not be modest?” he asked.
I was grateful our meal arrived then. So that I didn’t have to answer.
“Did you like the work you used to do before?” he asked.
I glanced up at him, taking a bite of dinner. Taking my time in answering him. Wondering how bad the tattoo under his chin hurt. Liking how dark and silky his hair looked and how dark his eyebrows were against his skin.
I knew what the right answer was. That oh no, I just did that kind of work to pay the bills. I never liked it. But that wasn’t true. I wouldn’t have kept doing anything I hated. And to me, it was still work. The thing I enjoyed doing. Putting pen to page. And at the end of the day, it was still about imagining stories. And I didn’t sense that I’d get judgment from him.
“I did,” I said, taking another bite. “It’s not what I want to do. Not forever. I’m more into stories and jokes than penetration and jizzum but… Yes, I enjoyed myself.”
“I was hoping that was the case,” he said, taking a careful sip of his drink. “Because I certainly enjoyed it. And I’d hate to think of you not feeling joy while you did what you love to do.”
“You want to come home with me tonight?” I asked.
He had just taken a bite of his wild mushrooms and choked on it. I pushed my glass of water to him while he coughed. Just watching him. His skin was so light that as soon as he coughed his cheekbones went instantly red. Thinking of how Snow White he was with his whole skin-white-as-snow, hair-black-as-ebony coloring. He took the sip of proffered water. Set the glass carefully down.
“Are you being serious?” he asked.
“Have I ever struck you as being anything but?” I asked.
“No-o,” he said slowly. Watching his tongue sneak out delicately, tap against his upper lip. Sliding his piercing back and forth. I nudged his toe under the table with my own.
“Unless this is very ‘un-fucking-professional’ of me,” I said, mimicking his embarrassment from the other day.
“Oh it is,” he said. “But have I ever struck you as being anything but?” Also mimicking. Being smarter and quicker than I thought he’d be.
“No. You’re very unserious,” I said. “I like that about you. We could fuck about it.”
He coughed again, covering his mouth with his knuckles. Flushing again.
“And speaking of unserious,” I added. “This would certainly be that.”
“I have consistently been looking for ‘just-fun’ since puberty,” he said.
“Then it sounds as though you’re accepting my proposal,” I said.
Going back to my dinner. It was good. They made an onion and mushroom tartlet I really liked. But it wasn’t the kind of place you could just go to and eat alone. And it wasn’t a take-out kind of place. So I rarely got to have it.
“Yes,” he said. Color still high, I noticed.
We both kept eating. Making eye contact.
“I wanted to have you as soon as you opened your door,” he said after a few minutes of quiet.
I glanced up at him. I saw that at least he thought he was being serious. I wondered if it was ever really like that for anyone else. How instantly and hungrily I had wanted Killian. I never thought anyone else was as base as that. Not like me. My ex had at first lovingly, and then scornfully, called me ‘lustful.’ I think he genuinely believed it to be unladylike. If he was feeling very flippant or shitty he’d even use the term ‘thirsty.’ It never felt like thirst to me though. It felt like hunger. Deeper and lower than hunger for food. Resting low in my guts, suffusing even my bones. But I didn’t think anyone else felt that. Not really. Not that want-now that Lee claimed to have had.
“You’ll have me,” I said instead. “Finish your dinner.”
Though he fought about it, I forced him to split the bill. Both struggling artists after all. Once we got out of the bistro, he reached for my hand. I glanced down at the clasp and allowed it to happen. I hated walking hand in hand, usually. Because those kinds of people were always blocking the sidewalk and fucking up traffic when it was busy. Besides, I hated having to match my pace so carefully to another person. It didn’t really matter tonight. Nor was the street terribly bustling.
He had long, fine fingers. Very almost-pretty. His left hand seemed to have a theme of bugs, his right, music– all in black ink. Around his cuticles he had a few remaining flakes of what had probably been black polish– allowed to chip away. He had very rough calluses under his knuckles. But he said he did a lot of the framework for the gallery. Still did some metal work for sculpture. And did most of the heavy lifting for installations at the gallery, too. So no great surprise there. Just interesting. I had a massive, unable-to-heal and ever-growing callus on my right middle finger. It looked deformed compared to my left hand. From where my pencil or pen rested.
Killian had lovely hands. Very broad, very obviously masculine. But neater than mine, certainly. Smoother and gentler, definitely. I sighed. Letting Lee and I’s hands swing between us. Letting him go to dig out my house keys.
We got upstairs, we kicked off our boots. I immediately started stripping, and I heard him gasp. Wondering if he was younger than me or not. He didn't look younger– but he also seemed to live rougher than me.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing him by the belt buckle and leading him back to my bed.
As he started taking off his shirt, I knelt, undoing his jeans. Already half-ready for me, I took him in my mouth. He allowed it for a few seconds or less. Resting his hands on my head to pause me. I looked up, cocking an eyebrow.
“Wait a second,” he panted.
I moved back away from him, giving him space. I’d hate for him to regret this or not enjoy himself.
“No hard feelings if you don’t want to. You can leave,” I said gently.
“No!” he said. We managed to laugh over the suddenness of his response. “No I… I um–”
“What do you need?” I asked.
Taking my hand again, he led me into the bed, falling onto his back.
“Keep going, please,” he said. “But get on my face… Please.”
I chuckled, acquiesced. Never my favorite position. I could either focus on giving or receiving oral. I’d never managed to be able to do both well. But it wasn’t my primary concern to orgasm tonight. And I liked giving. And frankly, he seemed like he’d be easy. I liked pulling his hair away from him, so I wouldn’t kneel on it and hurt him. And I liked his rough palms on my thighs. And he was good at what he did. And I could in fact feel the piercing. One little piece of curiosity sated.
It felt good when he moaned against me. And he didn’t stop his work even as he was coming. I finished him and then slithered off, rolling off the far side of my bed. He flung an arm out, catching me right above the knee.
“Wait,” he said, still sounding breathless. “You didn’t finish.”
“I’m finished,” I said, patting his hand gently.
His skin was still all flushed and pretty.
“If you want, I can finish you with my tongue or hand,” he offered, his other hand grabbing my wrist. “Or if you’re a toy girl, I’m not intimidated by that… I kind of think it’s hot, honestly. So I mean don’t… Don’t not because you’re scared of hurting my feelings or–”
“You’re wonderful,” I said. Once more, meaning it, and being sincere. “I didn’t finish… But I am done.”
“Oh,” he said, flopping back into the mattress. “Was it–?”
“It’s fine,” I said, trying to be soothing. Hoping I didn’t sound condescending. Because I certainly didn’t mean that at all.
I bent forward, kissing his forehead. Brushing his hair back off his face again. I really liked that. His hair finer and silkier than mine. I liked watching it spill over my fingers.
“You want me to leave, don’t you?” he asked.
“Well, I was going to grab you a drink. I’m not an animal, I’m not going to kick you out naked to the street,” I said.
He laughed and it was genuine. He didn’t sound hurt.
“Do you have a space where I can smoke?” he asked. “Or is that–?”
“I have a little balcony,” I said.
I did. A very little balcony. We’d have to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, in fact.
He stepped back into his shorts and jeans. I got into pajamas, because why not. Grabbed us each a soda. We went out onto the balcony. I watched him light up and breathe deeply.
“So who were you punishing by being with me tonight?” he asked, impressing by blowing a smoke ring.
“Good trick,” I said.
“It’s all in the tongue,” he said, grinning wickedly at me.
“No. Guessing what a piece of shit I am,” I said.
“You’re not a piece of shit,” he said. “You’re interesting. You’re sexy. You’re forward. You’re talented. But you used me tonight. And I’m curious.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. And I really meant it. “You’re so handsome, and you’re very kind, and you’re very good at that tongue work. Truly.”
He laughed, a little hoarse. Taking a long inhale. Offering me the cigarette. I took a shallow breath myself. Blowing it out into the alley.
“You don’t have to break up with me,” he said. “But I think I get to be nosy.”
“There’s a serious man,” I said.
“Ah-ha,” he said. “Thus why my unseriousness was of such interest. Will I be shot by some rampaging man-bull over the next few days?”
“Oh no. We’re not together,” I said. Least of all, I could hardly picture Killian committing any kind of violence. “But I really like him and I guess I’m looking for an excuse.”
“I have been a similar coward,” he said. Surprisingly nonjudgmental. “But man… You gotta try… Nothing else is worthwhile but doing the work. I am telling you… As someone who chronically cannot see anything to the finish line… Don’t let yourself wonder if you let joy go.”
“Fuck,” I said, taking the cigarette from him again. Breathing deep this time. Coughing violently.
“You’re right,” I said.
He leaned over, kissing my cheek. Smelling smokey and sweaty and strange.
“Walk me out,” he said.
We went back inside. He got redressed, and I saw him to the front door.
I leaned back against my re-locked door. In a similar fashion to how I’d let Killian out that first time I had him over. But no sighing or smiling or blushing. Just resting and trying to catch my breath. Getting that badly desperate sensation of my soul floating away from me. Even my eyes couldn’t seem to focus. The most real thing happening to me right now was the heaviness in my lungs from my few inhales of tobacco. The nastiness and dryness on my tongue. The soda hadn’t touched it. I couldn’t even taste Lee any more. Just stale smoke.
I rested a hand over my stomach. Gauging to see whether or not I had to be sick. But no. Which was good. It would be a shame to sick up Ferdon’s just because I’d indulged in my first cigarette in fifteen years.
I sat down at my desk. Thought about taking a shower, but it seemed like too much energy to stand under the spray. Doodling Lee. He'd be such a model, I thought. Pulling out a sable and my India ink to paint in his hair. Humming to myself. Leaning over my desk to open up my window. The sun nearly down, just an edging ribbon of fire on the western horizon.
Taking a deep sniff. Smelling hot concrete, garbage, the wet stoop that someone had hosed down. The deli across the way. The man who lived in the first floor apartment had a huge tub of lantana. They were purple and lovely. But to me, they smelt like firewater made from rotten orange peels. Or maybe cat pee. Someone would inevitably bump into the massive planter. Our mail person, or myself with groceries, or the man on the fourth floor or the mom and baby on the third. And then all I’d smell was that uric-alcohol stink.
Listening to the traffic. Some guy yelling. I couldn’t discern the words, all I really noticed is that he wouldn’t shut up. I strained, trying to listen. Figure out if he was at least speaking English. Couldn’t even figure out that much. Just sort of grinding my teeth over his badgering tone.
Hearing a car screeching off to the right. Instantly smelling burnt rubber after the fact. Hoping that no jogger or biker or pedestrian was hurt. But I heard no screams or cries or panic. A dog barking over and over in such a way that it sounded like a skipping record. A rasping hark hark hark that sounded like someone was kicking him.
I finished drawing Lee. Hanging it up on the little clothesline with the pegs I kept for just this kind of thing. To let ink dry out of my way. Rolling to the far side of my desk. To my little three drawer filing cabinet. That held scratch work and old pages and notebooks. The top-most drawer had stationary. I addressed it to the gallery with an attention to Lee. Panicking and feeling a little dirty when I realized I didn’t even know his surname. Eh, it would get to him. Glancing and seeing by the hue change the ink had since dried. Folding up the picture and stuffing it into the envelope. I hoped soon he’d find someone nice. Someone more mature and kinder than me.
Finished out my day by cleaning up the page I was working on. Brushing away dust with my big fluffy brush. Setting it into the ‘finished’ basket. Getting up and closing the window. Heading back to my bathroom. Stripping again and getting into a punishingly cold shower.