Beneath The Skin(54)

“A little bit,” he admits with a wink.

The next couple leaves, then the couple ahead of us go in. We’re next in line.

“Doesn’t take very long,” I remark. “Did you know Renée Brigand doesn’t make art? She makes experiences,” I inform him mockingly.

“I believe it,” he says, and I’m not sure he caught my sarcasm or my obvious distaste for Renée’s work. “I mean, really. Whether someone’s work pisses you off or invokes some deep dark part of you … or just plain makes you happy, I’d say it’s successful. I wish I could do that to people instead of just … being disregarded all the time.” He smirks, staring off somewhere.

I study the side of his face. He’s blushing. “You have a camera,” I remind him, trying to be encouraging. “Keep taking pictures, Brant. Keep taking pictures until you’re sick of taking them.” He’s like another kid at the Westwood Light whose spirit I’m trying to rekindle. “Then take some more.”

He considers my words. “Well, I would, but my camera’s …” His face twists into a wince, then he seems to shake away a thought. “You’re right,” he decides, smiling proudly. “I should keep at it until I get something decent from my big ol’ complicated device.”

I bite my lip at that last comment of his. That last comment was about you, Nell. “Listen. I’m …” I don’t know why it’s so difficult for me to apologize. Maybe I spent the first half of my life apologizing so much that now I’m all out of them, and the thought of issuing just one more makes me feel weak again. “I’m sorry for … implying that you were dumb. Or didn’t know what to do with a camera. Or … whatever it is I may have insinuated about you or your lack of intelligence.”

Then the door opens and out stroll the couple who went in before, two girls who smirk at one another as they strut away.

Brant pulls open the door. “After you.”

He didn’t acknowledge my apology, but he’s acting downright cheery. The apology isn’t meant to make me feel better; I said it for his sake. He can take it or leave it. I nod, surrendering, then slip past him through the door. His scent follows me in as I go, gripping my senses and blinding me to what I’m seeing until he shuts the door behind us, cutting off the light from the main gallery.

“What is this?” I ask dumbly, staring at the image before me.

He’s at my side. “I know, right??”

The room is the size of a walk-in closet or deep elevator, like the one you might find at a hospital. The walls are flat and white, and the only light in the room comes from a video projected on the farthest wall in front of us, filling its entire width and height.

The video is of two attractive people who are slowly and sensuously making out. They face each other, so we observe their profiles as they caress one another’s face tenderly, pushing lip against lip and nose against cheek as they twist and quirk their heads toward one another.

It’s almost beautiful until I notice that between their locked mouths, drool has gathered and slowly spills down their chins. Drips of their saliva pock their clothing and the plain, tiled floor at their feet. Once I notice that, I realize they may have been kissing for an exorbitant amount of time. Neither of them pulls away even for a second. The drool continues to pool, becoming more grotesque with every gentle smack and pucker of their lips.

“Ew,” I mumble when a drip of saliva loosens from the man’s chin and finds a home on the woman’s chest.

“It’s almost too much, isn’t it?” remarks Brant at my side, watching the show with awe.

I glance at him, pulling my eyes from the lovers. “This crap is what you wanted to show me?”

“It looks gross,” he agrees lightly, “but do you read their bodies? It’s beautiful, really. Their love is, like, totally gross. But it’s theirs. They’re into it. They want each other and they don’t care what it looks like, what others say … Right …? I mean, they’re totally into each other.”

I find I can’t look back at the lovers, suddenly hypnotized by the side of Brant’s face as his eyes shine from the light of the projected video, glimmering against the movements of the man and woman on the wall. He looks like a child watching the stars.

Has Brant ever truly been to an art exhibit? I mean, other than the last time when he became my exhibit. I wonder if he’s ever let art into his life. Is he doing this just to impress me, or is there something inside him that is being enraptured by the artistry he’s experienced tonight? Somehow, I don’t even mind that it’s Renée’s work.