“Well, good. That’s what I was going for.”
***
It was late afternoon by the time Jackson pulled into my driveway. He parked next to my Saab which Raul must have returned as promised. By the shiny, pristine look of it, he’d had it washed too.
My hands were sweaty from pressing them together during the drive. I still couldn’t quite see the image in my mind directly, but I knew what it felt like. After turning it over and over in my imagination, I had an inkling of what it would take to get there and I was excited to get started.
“You’re OK?” Jackson asked me as he turned the engine off, and I realized suddenly how rude I had been. I hadn’t said a word on the ride back, just alternated between chewing my lip and grinning stupidly as I concentrated on my painting problem.
“Gosh, yeah, I am great,” I nodded fervently. I wished I had words to describe the optimism that was foaming through my brain, but I had never really learned how to translate work into words. “So, do you want to come in?” I asked, hoping he would say No.
“I’d love to,” he nodded and left the car to swing around and open my door.
OK, be nice, I reminded myself silently. Don’t do your psychotically anti-social artist thing around him. Try to act normal.
As we walked to the entryway, I noticed the crate of paintings was near the front door, in the shade, and silently blessed Raul for his thoughtfulness. A cream colored envelope was wedged under one of the slats.
Well, at least I’ll have money to move, I thought as I keyed open the front door.
Jackson set the crate inside the foyer and I led the way to the living room, seeing it all with fresh eyes. I tried to imagine the ghost of a thirty-five year old Marlon Brando relaxing on the green L-shaped sofa in the sunken living room and it made me want to giggle.
“What?” Jackson said, sensing my mood.
“I guess Edna and Aunt Winnie used to really trip the light fantastic in here,” I said. “I’m just trying to imagine it all, you know? Would you like a drink?”
“I would,” he smiled.
Get him a drink. The painting will wait, I reminded myself. Try to work on that emotional exposure thing Edna was talking about.
Yeah, I have no idea how to do that.
While I cast about in my imagination for a sort of mental halloween costume to put on, Jackson circled the perimeter of the room. He touched the top of the mantle as he looked at each of the framed photos, then put his hands on his hips and stared at the small still life by the window.
“You painted this?”
“Yeah,” I answered, walking up behind him and holding out a bottle of some craft beer.
He nodded. I watched the back of his head bob and the thick muscles bunching under his creamy, light gauge silk sweater. He lingered in front of the painting like he was really looking at it, and I couldn’t help but bite my lip when he shifted his weight to one hip in a perfect contrapposto, like a Greek statue.
“It’s good,” he nodded. I didn’t answer but inside I squirmed like a kitten under his praise, even while I made a mental list of twelve things I would happily change about that painting. He moved to the window and looked out at the pool, and I distractedly imagined drawing him with long, undulating marks of velvety charcoal against thick paper.
“So… We should talk?” he said, and it sounded like a question.
“Oh!” I blurted. Now? Right now? “Well, sure, OK,” I said agreeably, hoping he had prepared a speech because I sure hadn’t.
I walked over to the sofa and sat, curling one leg under myself and leaning against the back. Look, Edna! I called silently. Check out my emotionally available posture!
As he walked to the couch, I tried not to see his eight-pack abs under his thin sweater or his hips working underneath his dark-washed jeans. It was like watching an animation in wireframe: my brain was stubbornly in Art Mode and I couldn’t seem to turn it off.
He sat on the far corner from me and started to talk. I know he did. He began to say something very mature and rational about our situation and normal ideas of propriety and whatnot. But all I could do was watch the exquisite shadow of stubble on his jaw as it caught tiny fire lights of sun. He was all aglitter, and my fingers ached to trace his outlines.
“You know what I mean?” he concluded, spreading his hands palm-up.
Nodding, I bit my lip and tried to hide the excitement in my ribcage. I knew exactly how to make that shade of blue that shone in his hair. I could almost hear the sound the charcoal would make if I were drawing him. The thought of drawing him mingled with the memory of tasting him and my tongue itched as I imagined that texture in my mouth