“Well, that depends…” Jess mischievously remarked, taking another swig of her drink.
“How do a few weeks in America sound?”
“Why the bloody hell would I want to go to America?”
Jess slapped a hand down on the table. “Because in America, nobody knows your name.”
1
Riley
The canvas sang with streaks of color as I dashed my palette knife along the taut material. Beneath my deft strokes, a serene landscape was springing to life, filled with clouds, mountains, and trees… and for the foreground, a hilltop pasture.
This was what I lived for.
Painting came naturally to me. On my mother’s side of things, a thick streak of artistic creativity ran in the family. My grandmother had been a skilled seamstress and designer. My mother had been particularly skilled in sculpting.
That left me: Riley Ricketts, the painter.
Happiness was an empty canvas and a broad spectrum of vibrant paints, all ready for the skillful dance of my wrist. I favored a water-based style, coating the blank vessel of my artwork with a thin layer of clear-coat before adding in the surreal colors with a palette knife, a half-inch brush, or the edge of whatever expendables I had nearby.
I’d painted with sponges, crushed chocolate wrappers, Lego bricks, even steel wool. A consummate improviser, I worked with whatever was accessible and necessary to achieve the effect.
Although the gift came almost as naturally to me as breathing, I’d found myself in a bit of a bind these last few months.
The magic had gone away.
Whatever invisible muse had been guiding my work, it had scampered off into the night. My art still came as easily as ever, but it felt uninspired. It never looked the way I wanted it to.
Despite the protests of my few close friends, I let each failed piece languish in the spare closet. They called it the Closet of Doom. It had become a graveyard of forgotten canvases… a tomb for failed passions.
I glanced down at the canvas before me now, seated comfortably on the easel. As I wiped clean the palette knife in my hand and lifted a blue-tipped brush, ready to enhance the clouds above, my hand hesitated waveringly.
No, I thought to myself.
This won’t do.
As if I were a disappointed parent, I dipped the brush back into the cup of water and beat the Devil out of it against the metallic easel frame. Down went my pallet, set aside for later use, and the brush dropped into my easel-side container.
I stretched my limbs, intertwining my fingers outwardly above my head. The light was already turning, casting my small studio in the throes of twilight. Soon, Reiko would be here, ready to cast off another dismal day running her boss’s sandwich shop. Maybe Connor would join us tonight, although I was growing less and less patient with his passive-aggressive advances.
It was obvious he wanted to date me, but I’d held the same sisterly affection for him that I had since junior high… for whatever reason, that apparently wasn’t enough anymore.
Worries for another time, I decided, bending to the side to stretch my back.
I heard the door squeal open, and the slight clatter as it slid back into place.
“You in the studio?”
“Yeah. You can come in.”
Reiko Sugiyama leaned against the doorway, already dressed in her street clothes. With a cute, round face and soft features, her casually fierce eyes reinforced everything that her sheer force of presence said: Don’t fuck with me.
Despite her lithe form, Reiko’s snarkiness and intimidation were the things of legend. I’d only ever witnessed it secondhand, but my other best friend since junior high was a sight to behold. There wasn’t a single bone in her body that lacked confidence, and she walked with her head held high and a strut that showed the world who was really the boss.
It was a shame that she was so lazy.
With just a pinch more ambition, she would have already left her job: babysitting a bunch of teenagers barely able to string along a decent club sandwich.
“Whatcha got there?” Reiko asked, nodding in the direction of the canvas. “No, no, let me guess… another one of your recent failures, am I right?”
“Maybe,” I answered apathetically.
“Yeah, I thought so,” she sighed, pushing off from the doorway and sauntering over. Her black boots clanged against the hardwood floor as she bent over beside me and peered at the canvas. “You know, whatever it is that you hate about your art these days, I just don’t see it. This looks just as fucking fantastic as your usual shit.”
“Shit being the operative word,” I replied, wandering towards the kitchen to give her privacy with the painting. After hours of being in the zone and away from my bodily needs, I was positively parched.