Chapter 3
Chapter Three
DOWN AND DIRTY
Thus, I fall back onto my pillow as my body protests my plan to be responsible. The events of last night come rushing back to me in quick succession. Scenes of a tongue on the back of my hand, a warm grip on my thighs, my wrists… my back up against the wall.
A shiver goes down my spine as I remember the matching signature test and snippets of Devo’s parting words. “Don’t touch yourself” is the phrase that comes back to me first. It hits me like a truck. I can’t believe I followed instructions.
I’m already starting to feel the blood rush to all the wrong... or right places while replaying moments from last night. God, that wall kiss was hot…
I could touch myself now… why am I listening to a virtual stranger?
I think back through all our letters and part of me starts to make an argument that we’re not total strangers.
Temptation begins to crack open the door before I force it closed with an ungraceful flip out of bed.
I have no time for these wanton thoughts. I have to get going.
As I change my underwear, I notice evidence of my, uh, arousal and I can’t help myself.
I slide just the tip of my middle finger up my center and my whole body shivers again.
I want what Devlin didn’t give me last night, and for some reason, I stop at that one touch.
I’ll try it his way… just this once. I don’t even have to tell him I listened to him. I’m experimenting.
I leave the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens with an additional $430 in my digital wallet.
Not bad! Harper and her friend had both paid me for pictures this morning.
“We’re lucky to have your artistic direction, Char!
” Harper responded when I’d thanked them both for the generous amount.
Over $200 an hour, earned while very hungover, is no small wage!
While Harper has clearly been doted on by her parents and presents as a bit spoiled and na?ve, she always treats me well.
I actually like her… even if I don’t think we’ll ever be close friends.
The two-hour shoot with the leggy blondes among sun-dappled walking paths and exotic flowers had been a helpful distraction.
I was able to think about whether we should drape a coat over a shoulder or if Harper’s friend looked best holding her purse with one hand or two.
Nothing that reminded me of the steamy make-out last night or a man’s hand grazing the apex of my thighs.
I wasn’t reminded of stubble against my check or his piercing gaze, or even our upcoming “collaboration.”
Well, the thoughts are back.
I make my way over to Copper Works in a haze.
I try my best to focus on the scenes I pass: a man feeding pigeons from a park bench, a woman pushing a tiny dog in a stroller, two kids perfecting a secret handshake.
However, as I near my destination, I can no longer distract myself from the butterflies beginning to crowd my stomach.
Will he be there? I assume so. If this is where he’s hosting his next micro-residency, he must be working on his next project.
A project that I seem to have volunteered to help with.
“What’s in it for me?” I’d asked him in that last letter.
He’d never actually answered. If I’m helping him paint in some way…
I’d hope to get credit. But I’d never seen a Devo collaborator revealed officially and I’m not sure how his process works.
A jolt of energy shoots through me, helping the Advil and Gatorade I’d downed earlier cut through my hangover. I can’t tell if I’m nervous or excited. Probably both.
I cross the threshold of Copper Works and scan the surroundings.
There are a few folks milling about or focusing on their artwork.
I don’t spot the brown-haired, light-eyed boy who’d partially ravaged me last night.
My heart drops and the adrenaline dissipates.
I take a deep breath and let my muscle memory carry me through my normal routine of preparing to work at my canvas in the corner.
Alex sees me and waves from beside whatever abstract sculpture he’s making in his usual spot across the large room.
I muster a smile and wave back. Once I don my smock and grab my supplies from my locker, I head to my unfinished painting of the girl in the mist. My eye catches on a white envelope resting on the corner of my easel, leaning on the dry paint.
A small paint splatter crosses the front of the envelope.
It almost looks like I missed my canvas; it almost looks like a mistake.
Once again, I know it’s not. The butterflies are back, and they are flapping their wings, hard.
I pick up the envelope and look around the room again, to see if anyone’s noticed the blush creeping up my neck and cheeks or if Devo is watching me open this from some dark corner of the room.
But no—no Devo in sight. No one’s eyes are on me.
We’re all in our own little worlds. I slip my finger under the flap of the envelope and pull it open.
The note within contains the same handwriting I’d seen in Devo’s correspondence for months—but this letter is quite brief.
My name is at the top in bold, angular cursive followed by a dash. Below is a note simply saying:
If you still accept, meet me here tomorrow, noon.
— D
P.S. I’d hold off for another night.
My eyebrows knit together. Is he implying that I still don’t touch myself for another 24 hours?
Who does he think he is?? And he didn’t sign off with his full name this time.
Why would he do that? Do I still want to sign up for our “collaboration,” as he calls it?
An uncomfortable feeling claws its way up my chest, and I run a hand through my hair.
I have the urge to stomp my foot like an insolent child, but refrain.
Instead, I delicately slip the note back in its envelope and put it in my back pocket.
I don’t have to decide anything now, even though I can tell my body is already anticipating seeing him again.
My mind wants to focus on my work, right here in front of me.
The girl in the mist. What journey is she on?
Without much to work with from Devo’s note, I focus on my art and get lost in the next few hours of added detail and story.
By the time the natural light starts to fade from the windows, I think I’ve realized the girl is on a journey of self-discovery.
I go home that night feeling satisfied about the progress I made on my piece, and pretending that I’m undecided about whether I’ll show up tomorrow.
Our radiators hiss as I pull a sweater down over my head and warm socks on my feet. The temperature outside just dropped to the legal minimum before our building is required to provide heat. I brush my teeth with one hand and mindlessly scroll social media with the other.
A video comes up on my screen and my thumb stops.
I let my toothbrush dangle from my lips as I use both hands to turn the volume up on my phone and zoom in on part of the video.
It’s featuring a Muse Painting. But the focus of the video isn’t on just the art.
A majority of the screen is taken up with a shot of a young woman with long, gleaming braids.
She has chocolate brown eyes that are framed by sharp, winged eyeliner, heavily glossed lips and high cheekbones.
She’s more than beautiful, I realize, she’s striking.
My brows furrow as I drag the video back a few seconds and lean in with my toothbrush still hanging from my mouth.
“It was quite the experience,” the striking woman says as she runs her delicate fingers over the thick braid running down her collarbone and chest. Her posturing comes across as almost… feline. She’s graceful, unattainable, intimidating.
Just then, Mariah pops her head in the bathroom doorway.
“Hey whatcha got goin on my little artiste?” Once I’m in full view, she tilts her head and squints.
Her eyes sweep over my unkempt hair I’d hastily pushed back with a terry cloth headband, and the toothpaste dripping down my chin.
“Busy week? I didn’t see you yesterday.”
I pause the video, finish brushing my back molars and spit. I wipe my chin and spin back to face her. She’s now looking down at her own phone. “Yes, actually,” I say. “I did a photoshoot with Harper today and I worked a lot on a new painting!”
“A new painting!” she says without looking up from her phone. “That’s amazing! I know you’ve felt stuck for a while.”
“Yeah!” I turn back to the mirror and take off my mascara with a reusable cotton pad and make-up remover. “I’m kind of excited about it.” And that was the truth. I hadn’t felt inspired for far too long. Now I feel inspiration coming at me from multiple angles.
“Well, I’m proud of you!” Mariah beams up at me finally, phone down. I have a good four inches on her, although I always felt her stature commanded more respect.
I give her a genuine smile back. I feel so grateful to have a friend who always roots for me. Mariah is a blessing.
“Hey, what did mystery man’s note say?” She shimmies her shoulders and purses her lips. “You know, from Sunday night?”
“Ah, he said that he might come to Brooklyn one day,” I reply. Which isn’t technically a lie...
“Ooo!” she exclaims. “How exciting! We could use a little intrigue in our life!”
“We?”
“Well, obviously I’ll need to live vicariously through you once you meet your hot and sexy pen pal.” Now her whole body shimmies and she spins on her heel. “How fun would that be?” I can hear her say as she walks away toward her bedroom.
“Good night!” I yell after her. She waves over her shoulder. Mariah can just pop in and out like that, even in large social situations. But she always leaves an impression.