“You know what I mean!” She called out from the studio room. “I just don’t get it. People would kill for talent like yours. Tell me, explain it to me… what makes this suck to you?”
Pouring myself a glass of water, I ripped the scrunchie from my hair. My mane fell over my shoulders, the unfurled locks eager for release.
“I don’t expect you to get it,” I answered truthfully. “There’s something missing. A spark…” I walked back down the hall, settling against the doorway as she had before.
“Well, I’ll trust your judgement,” Reiko grinned over her shoulder, before her smile faded into concern. “But you’ve been on this warpath against your own work for, what, months now? I know you say you lost your spark or whatever, but maybe this stuff is better than you think?”
She turned back to the mostly finished landscape, clearly admiring my efforts. “I mean, this doesn’t belong in your Closet of Doom. If that’s what you’re doing with it, let me put this up on my wall. I need art for my bare ass apartment anyway. Hell, I’ll take half of that closet right now.”
“You know I can’t let you do that,” I reminded her. “I can’t let this out into the wild. It’s fine here… where it’s safe… at least, until I can figure out what’s wrong with it, maybe clean it up.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know…”
She looked a little glum, but I appreciated that Reiko understood my artistic selfishness. The idea of something inferior that I’d created with my own hand being out there, even on a close friend’s wall… the idea bothered me.
Hell, Connor had tried to sneak off with one of my castaway closet paintings, and I’d furiously banned him from my apartment for two months. It had been a breach of my trust as a friend and an artist.
Reiko understood.
“Alright, well, I know there’s no convincing you otherwise,” she finally conceded, standing up straight. “Anyway, I like it. It’s good.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I smiled.
“…Oh! I almost forgot the whole reason why I’m here!”
She grinned ear to ear, clasping her fingerless gloved hands together. “Get yourself cleaned up, woman. We’re going to the French Quarter tonight.”
“Oh yeah?” I tilted my head. “Why’s that?”
“Because the guitarist in that band I like is a bartender down there, and he tells me that this rugged, British dude showed up a few days ago. He’s been coming in every night since, mostly keeping to himself. I think you need a little something different, so you’d better get glammed up and get your flirt on.”
Now that was intriguing.
“I don’t know… Maybe I don’t feel like going out tonight,” I replied, trying to bury the little devil of excitement creeping up inside me.
“That’s exactly why you need to get out. You’ve been holed up in this apartment trying to get your mojo back. Maybe you’re looking for spark in all the wrong places,” Reiko said, grinning mischeviously.
“And you think I’ll find inspiration in some British guy’s pants?”
“It worked the last time, didn’t it?” Reiko laughed.
I wanted to protest, but she was right.
One of the more defining characteristics of myself, besides my penchant for painting, was that I was a total Anglophile. I religiously watched the BBC America channel, following such British staples as Doctor Who and Sherlock. I’d only been to England once on a summer’s break, but it had confirmed my every suspicion:
I loved England.
I’d come back from that trip full of inspiration.
Everyone close to me knew that… and to hear that there was a British guy here in town who’d fallen into routine at a nearby bar… Maybe I was due a little fun…
Besides… This was our usual night to go barhopping. We’d skipped the last few when she’d been overwhelmed with work, and I hadn’t really been myself lately. Knowing that the English card was on the table added a whole other layer of excitement.
“What makes you think that he’s into someone like me?” I asked thoughtfully, casting her a look.
“Geoffrey tells me that this guy’s been turning down the most sex-starved vapid chicks around,” Reiko recalled. “Hell, he’s wandered back out alone every damn night. Whether or not he scores later, there’s no telling, but none of them are successful, award-winning artists… maybe he’s into someone with a few brain cells?”
“What’s he look like?”
“Why don’t you just go find out for yourself?”