Beneath The Skin(92)

And Nell.

Touching.

My skin.

I shake away the thoughts, figuring that strolling into the End Of Year Showcase with a boner in my tuxedo pants would not be the most fitting first impression for all the stuffy, uppity folk in the art industry who I’m about to encounter. I’m thankful that Dmitri knows where we’re going because I brainlessly follow his and Riley’s lead, snaking through the sprinkled crowds and couplings of people around the gallery, who observe the artwork and make quiet, small-talk amongst themselves regarding how the pieces make them feel and what they think they mean. “What a curious commentary on the state of our educational system,” I overhear some man say. “Oh, an allegory to music and mime. Yes, touching. Cliché, but touching,” says another.

I can’t make sense of any of it. I just follow Dmitri and worry over no one and nothing that I hear. Am I going to be able to withstand what these pretentious know-it-alls say about my work?

“Dude, is this you?”

Dmitri’s voice snaps me into reality. I look up.

Lined along the wall are my five photographs, each strategically placed on the wall to show a sort of sequence. The first photo is of a guy slumped over his kitchen counter in a slightly unflattering posture and he’s eating a bowl of cereal. His hair is messy, his cheeks puffy from lack of sleep, and he’s wearing an oversized t-shirt. The spoon is halfway to his hanging-open mouth.

“Who’s that?” Dmitri asks, leaning in to inspect it. “I know him. Oh my god, is that—?”

“Eric,” I agree. “Doesn’t look like him at all, does it?”

“Hell no. Damn.” He squints and adjusts his glasses, as if his eyes are playing cruel tricks. “He’s gonna kill you for showing this.”

I throw up my hands. “Hey, he signed off on it! Signed the release and everything.”

Dmitri chuckles. “He’s still gonna kill you.”

“I love it,” mutters Riley.

“Yeah,” agrees Dmitri. “It feels so …”

“Personal,” she finishes thoughtfully. “It’s so raw. So … untouched. It doesn’t look posed. I really feel like I’m in his kitchen just … sharing breakfast with him. Waking up with him. Dreading the day I’m about to have.”

“Well, you are in his kitchen,” Dmitri replies.

“Thanks for the attitude.” Riley rolls her eyes, nudging him, though I can’t tell if it’s an annoyed nudge or a playful one.

“Oh, wow.” Dmitri notices the next photo. “This one’s yours too? You did all of these?”

“These five,” I confirm.

The next photo is one Sam let me take of her in the music building. She’s practicing a piece in one of the cramped piano rooms with her sorta-boyfriend Tomas standing next to her with his bassoon. I noticed a flinch of discomfort from Sam when Tomas played his first note, and for some reason, my finger chose to capture that moment forever.

Dmitri stares at the photo for so long, I’m worried he thinks it’s crap when suddenly he says, “Never seen her like this before.”

“Seen who? Sam?”

Dmitri doesn’t respond, oddly taken with the photo.

Riley chimes in. “Oh! Is this Samantha? I never met her before. Dmitri, is this the one who used to be roommates with that actress?”

“With Dessie, yes, that’s the one,” he answers distractedly.

Riley turns to me. “These photos are stunning, Brant.”

I can’t help but grin stupidly at that, like a dog that had just been tossed a treat. If I had a tail, it’d be wagging. I’m so damn easy to please.

The third photo is one I took straight from the collection I’d done at the theater of Clayton watching Dessie from the wing of the stage, except I picked a shot that I captured from the front. His dark, twisted tattoo coils up his neck, caught in crisp detail, and seems to cradle his frozen face, which watches with bewilderment as he observes the performance in front of him. Beads of sweat adorn his forehead, and there’s a streak of grease on the collar of his t-shirt. The fourth photo is from the same series, but it’s of Dessie sitting in her dressing room, all alone. She didn’t know I was there until she heard the click of the camera and by then it was too late—her moment caught by my too-quick hands. She had been fiddling with a charm bracelet on her wrist, studying it with such intensity that it seemed to transport her into a whole world of memories and thoughts and feelings. I remember standing there in the doorway wondering what she was imagining, just before slowly lifting my camera and sealing the moment in a single, forever photograph.