complete stranger two days ago. It was weird enough that we walked the same way to the subway station. It was an understandable coincidence that we got off at the same stop. But this? Having him move in three doors to my left? That’s astronomical odds.
Unless the meeting he claimed to have was viewing the apartment. That must be it. I’m just being paranoid. He hasn’t given me the impression he’s set on harming me or anyone else. He actually gives off a real protector vibe. Like a broody alpha male who would wrestle a Komodo dragon to save someone else.
“You better get your plants situated. I guess… welcome to the building, Archie.”
“Thank you for your services, Georgia. Christofern and Vincent Van Grow thank you too.”
I watch his facial expression closely, but it never wavers. Not even a twitch of his lips. “Did you really name your plants?”
He chuckles for the first time in the twenty minutes we’ve ever interacted. “Plants thrive when you speak to them. It’s scientifically proven.” He adjusts the box in his grip, causing the fern to wobble.
I lunge forward and reach out to steady it. “Woah.”
Once the plant is secure, Archie’s piercing brown eyes lock on mine. If I were drawing them, I’d choose sepia as the main shade, then I’d add in flecks of copper and dashes of coffee. His eyes have a lot of dimension and so much vibrancy, I don’t notice I’m completely lost in them until he clears his throat.
“Thank you. I’d be gutted if anything happened to Christofern.” He smirks again, which makes his eyes even more radiant. “Listen, uh… I’m new in the neighborhood, and since I owe you for your security services, would you let me take you out for a coffee or something?”
I snort-laugh, which is an embarrassing habit of mine. He wouldn’t be the first guy to ask me out, then change his mind after discovering that little gem. Either that or my penchant for terrible puns. But he doesn’t do anything except smile wider.
Why am I not running through a thousand excuses to say no? That’s what I always do. My habit of disappearing for days on end when I lock myself away to create isn’t conducive to dating. But you can never have too many friends. It’s just coffee. Right?
“Okay. I’m easy, so I’m available whenever.” That came out wrong. “I mean, I’m flexible.” No, that gives the wrong impression. “I mean… just knock on my door whenever you want to go.” Stop. Talking.
“Which door is yours?” He isn’t the least bit put off by my babbling.
“502.” I point at my door and suddenly remember I’m supposed to meet my friends at a paint studio for a wine and paint night. “I have to go. Welcome… again.”
The elevator doors open a few seconds later—my incessant pressing of the button paid off for the first time in my life—so I step in beside a portly older gentleman with a friendly smile. Archie watches me as the door closes, his face back in its default setting. His multifaceted gaze seems to scrutinize everything as much as I do. I’m not sure what to think of him, but I guess we’re having coffee together, so I’ll figure that out another day.
Twenty minutes later, I run into the modern high-rise with the art studio hosting tonight’s event and find Rene and Michelle waiting in the lobby.
“We thought you forgot.” Michelle pulls me in for a hug first. She’s a year older than me and Rene, so she’s taken on the motherly role. It helps that she’s married to her high school sweetheart and has a three-year-old daughter, Savannah.
“No, I got tied up because someone was moving onto my floor.” I hug Rene, even though she’s as warm and fuzzy as a cactus. I bet if Archie had a cactus, he’d name it Mr. Prickles. Or Cactus Evergreen. Or—
“Earth to Georgia.” Rene snaps her fingers in front of my face.
I shake thoughts of Archie out of my head to focus on my best gal pals. “Sorry. Should have grabbed a coffee on my way. I’m a little sleepy.”
“Girl, I have a threenager who has been protesting sleep for weeks. Don’t talk to me about being tired.”
I chuckle at Michelle as she presses the button for the elevator. She doesn’t use my effective method to make it arrive faster, so we’re left waiting.
“How is my lil’ Sassy Sav? Has she decided what she wants painted on her bedroom wall yet?”
“Sassy is an understatement. One day she wants an elaborate scene with a castle and a thousand bunnies, the next day she’s begging for the cast of Nacho and Friends, then she decides she wants snakes and butterflies.”
“Snakes and butterflies?” Rene and I ask in unison.
“Shawn and I were trying to covertly discuss the birds and the bees. She decided that snakes and butterflies were a better pairing, and really, I can’t argue with her.”
We all laugh as the elevator dings and opens its doors on the eighteenth floor. We follow the Paint and Wine sign to the studio door and enter to find at least thirty other people inside.
“Wow. This place is wild,” I say as I take it all in.
“And that’s a sign you’ve gotten boring. If a few dozen people qualify as wild, you need to get out more.” Rene leaves me with that declaration and marches ahead to get us signed in at the reception area.
Michelle and I continue our discussion of her daughter’s latest antics and a new opportunity she was offered at work.
The three of us met during our time at The School of the Art Institute of Chicago—better known as SAIC. Michelle pursued a degree in fashion design, and Rene obtained hers in art education. Now they’re both working in their respective fields—Michelle as a purchaser for a large department store who works directly with prominent designers, and Rene as an art teacher at a high school in Englewood.
I always want to be everyone’s greatest cheerleader, and I’m so happy for them both for pursuing their passion and having it pay off. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting a little that I’ve put so much work into pursuing mine only for my efforts to fall flat time and time again.
Tonight is a pleasant distraction, though. I spend the next two hours indulging in the complimentary wine and painting my version of Claude Monet’s Water Lilies. I’m familiar with the original because I spent a lot of time examining each brush stroke and color choice during my time at The Art Institute. I wouldn’t say my version compares to Monet, but I dream of creating work that is hung on a wall somewhere with people flocking to come experience it for themselves, just like they do with his. Especially people like Archie who don’t even realize how much a work of art can impact you on a fundamental level.
“This is not fair. Why do we keep bringing this girl to paint nights?” Michelle grumbles as she drops her paintbrush in a cup of olive green water and gestures at my painting.
“You guys keep suggesting it. I just come along for the wine.”
“Next time we’re going to a football game,” Rene adds after setting down her empty wineglass. “It’s no fun when I consider myself a decent artist, but next to yours, mine looks like Savannah made it.”
“Hey. My child is a prodigy. She can draw the best stick figures you’ve ever seen.”
I listen as my friends exchange playful banter, and I laugh along with them, but my eyes are focused on a couple one row over. The man, who looks to be about my age with umber skin and a neatly styled fade, lifts his hand to brush paint off of the woman’s milky cheek with his thumb. She blushes, enhancing her freckles, and looks at him through her lashes with her head tilted downward and a coy smile. The knowing exchange between them—that love—is so obvious, I’d much rather be painting that. No offense to Monet, but his work has already been mastered. No one can out-Monet Monet. I want my work to be my own and capture these moments that I feel are deserving of being frozen in time.
But it’s hard to make a living on capturing that in an age of cell phone cameras and filters.
“Hey, what’s with the face?” Michelle asks, pouring the last of our shared bottle of wine into my glass. “You look like you could use that.”
I smile at my observant friend. “I don’t know. Just feeling defeated, I guess. Like I’m never going to catch a break, and I’m wasting my time by trying. Maybe I’m not as good as I thought.” This is the first time I’ve said those words out loud, because I didn’t want to admit it to myself. Let alone anyone else.
“Oh, girl. Look at this.” Rene points at my lackluster re-creation. “This is remarkable. It may be a tough industry to break into, but it has nothing to do with your talent. It’s more a matter of connecting with the right people and having your work seen.”
“Why didn’t you say you were feeling this way? I’m sure between me and Rene, we can round up some names of people you can contact.” Michelle passes me my wineglass, encouraging me to drink.
Now I feel guilty for being a downer on our girls’ night. I chug the last of my merlot before responding. “No, no. It’s fine. I’m just being a winer.” I wink and hold up my glass, hoping they understand my terrible play on words.
They’ve been around me long enough, they get it, judging by their eye rolling.
“Seriously, you’ve got too much talent to waste. I wish you would have told us sooner that you were feeling this way. We can help,” Michelle adds, tilting her head to inspect my artwork.
“You would make a killing if you had your own gallery showing. Guarantee. Give me a week and I’m going to find some names for you to contact,” Rene says, fiddling with the final touches of her painting.
I smile at her, appreciating her confidence in me. Confidence I no longer have in myself. “I’ll figure it out. Thanks for the little pep talk.” I push my stool back and stand. “Now, enough whining and more wining. Time to make some pour decisions.”
The rest of the evening, I sneak peeks at the young couple, committing their exchanges to memory so I can draw on them for inspiration in my own work. There’s no greater muse than two people in love.
It’s just too bad for me that love and passion aren’t enough to pay the bills.