Chapter 6 - EthanBlue
Chapter 6
Ethan
My fingers are moving like they have a mind of their own, nervously shredding a napkin into a tiny pile of confetti as I wait for Blue to arrive. The fact that I’ve been here for less than thirty minutes and I’m half-finished with my second espresso probably isn’t helping the napkin situation. The only explanation I can come up with for why I’m so nervous is that I like the guy. It’s not that I’m romantically interested in him. Even the few colorful jokes about fucking in the hot shop we traded didn’t really do anything for me, aside from leave me shocked that I was comfortable making that kind of joke out loud. It’s not like I know the guy; I mean, we’ve only spent a few hours together, but Blue just seems…nice. He seems like he might be a good friend. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend that I’m not even sure our interactions so far have actually been the potential start of a friendship. They feel like it, but I could definitely be misinterpreting them.
God, that makes me sound like the most pathetic excuse for a human. I’ve spent so much time and energy focusing on work and making myself date and trying to force myself to feel something resembling romance or sexual attraction for the men I’ve gone out with that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to joke with someone or to share a love of old movies. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to spend a few moments not feeling like I have to try to be the person everyone expects instead of who I really am. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to connect. While Blue and I were together in the hot shop, I didn’t feel like I had to try. I’d simply been able to exist with him. Even the moments when we stood silently, shaping the puddle of hot glass into something more, weren’t awkward. I didn’t feel like I had to be smart or witty or charming. I didn’t feel like his silence was filled with judgment. Working beside him felt…natural, and that’s so far outside my realm of experience that it’s just a bit terrifying.
The moment Blue steps through the door of the coffee house, his eyes dart around, searching for me, and I spend a panic-filled instant wishing I had time to hide my pile of napkin bits before he notices them. But the couch in the bright, sunlit corner that I’m settled on is only a few steps from the café’s entrance, and trying to scoop the mess into my hand would just draw more attention to my twitching fingers.
A smile as bright and brilliant and blinding as the one I remember from the first day I saw him takes over his entire face when he spots me, and he alters his course to make his way to my table. This time, that smile is for me, and even though I’m not entirely sure what to make of the feeling that stirs in my chest, it’s a moment I don’t want to ever forget. I’ve only ever seen him dressed in ripped jeans, band T-shirts, and old Henleys, all bearing a handful of stains and scorch marks, but that’s not what he’s got on this morning. No. This morning, he’s wearing almost skintight black leather pants. Black fucking leather pants. Who just walks around the city during the summer at eleven in the morning wearing leather pants? If I wasn’t too broken to have a normal sexual reaction when encountering someone attractive, Blue in leather pants would definitely be a sight that would have me surreptitiously adjusting myself and crossing my legs. That doesn’t happen, of course, even though part of me wishes it would, but I can still appreciate the way they hug his thick thighs and perfectly tight, round ass. He’s paired his eleven a.m. leather pants with a basic black V-neck T-shirt, one without any burns or rips or stains. The harsh black geometric lines that crawl along his arms and the shining silvery glints of his piercings stand out in stark relief against miles of tan skin. He could be a rock star or a hitman or a fallen angel. He could be one of any number of people who would certainly be too cool to be meeting the likes of me for coffee. Yet he’s here, smiling at me so brightly that the beams of sunlight that stream in through the windows seem to pale in comparison.
He flops into the armchair on the opposite side of the table with a strange, graceful nonchalance that I can’t imagine trying to emulate. He’s so comfortable in his own skin that he moves without anxiety or nervousness or a care in the world. I don’t think he’d even notice if someone was staring at him, let alone care what they thought. He tosses the small turquoise vase he’s carrying a few inches into the air with a twirl, and a surprised yip makes its way out of my throat before I can stop it.
“You think I’d let anything happen to your masterpiece?” His smooth voice chuckles softly as his long fingers catch the fragile glass and curl tenderly around its neck before he reaches across the table and sets it next to my embarrassing pile of napkin fragments. Even though it’s clearly not a masterpiece, he doesn’t seem like he’s making fun of it. He seems to be genuinely happy that it survived its night cooling in the oven and the short trip from the studio to the coffee shop.
I lean forward and pluck the vase reverently from the table, letting my fingers trail along its curves.
“Thank you for this. Aside from a wobbly ashtray and a leaky mug in high school ceramics, I’ve never actually made any art before.”
His smile softens, and he settles deeper into the chair, leaning onto one arm in a way that shifts his body a bit closer to me. “Now that can’t be true at all. Everyone makes some type of art once in a while.”
I laugh without thinking. Without remembering to temper my volume or worrying about what he might think of me. “Oh, it’s true. I’m good with numbers and puzzles and organization, not with artistic endeavors. Once I squeaked my way out of that high school ceramics class with a C minus, I gave up my illustrious but short-lived career as an artist.”
Blue smiles yet again and gestures to my small, slightly lopsided vase. “Well, your first piece of non-wobbly, non-leaky art turned out wonderfully, I think.”
There is silence for a moment as I examine my masterpiece. I know his eyes are still on me, but I’m too caught up in realizing that I hold an actual physical accomplishment in my hands to care. I’ve accomplished a lot in my life professionally. I’ve helped a lot of businesses stay afloat and their owners fulfill their dreams, but it’s different somehow, holding this small, fragile, tangible thing that I made. That we made together.
As the comfortable silence stretches between us, Gabriel appears and settles an espresso in front of Blue before grinning at us both without a word before walking away.
“Is glass how you make a living? I mean, you mentioned needing to head to work yesterday, so maybe not. I don’t know, maybe you work at a gallery or another glass place or something?” I can’t seem to stop the way I’m rambling. I’m curious about Blue and his artwork. He’d moved so fluidly in the studio. It had felt like I’d been watching him in his natural habitat, and I can’t really imagine him doing anything else .
His laugh is low and rumbling, but his smile no longer seems to reach his eyes as he shakes his head.
“No, I sell a few pieces from time to time, but I’m a waiter at the Sky Lounge. I like it just fine, and it pays my bills while still giving me a good amount of time to spend in the studio. Not very many people manage to make a living as glass artists, and I don’t think my work is unique enough that I’ll ever become all that successful.”
I’m not really sure what to say to that. Do I apologize? Do I say that I’m sure he’s more talented than he’s giving himself credit for, even though I haven’t seen his work? In the end, I find myself wanting to comfort him.
“Just because you don’t make a living from it doesn’t mean you’re not successful.”
Blue settles deeper into his overstuffed armchair and pauses for a long moment. His pale eyes lock to mine, their blue-grey coloring seeming to shift as subtly and endlessly as stormy ocean waves in the bright sunlight, and even though I normally hate prolonged eye contact, for once, I’m not uncomfortable enough to look away. It almost feels as though I can see his thoughts whirling behind those eyes as he considers my words and reassesses his work, and in a matter of seconds, the small wrinkles beside his eyes are back. It feels like success .
“You know, I’ve never really thought about it like that. Culturally, we’re so caught up in thinking about success as only a financial thing, but you’re right. Maybe I am successful in my own way. Thank you.”
For the second time in as many minutes, I don’t really know how to respond. What does one say when they accidentally help someone come to a minor epiphany about their accomplishments? Seeing as I spend my life helping others achieve their business dreams, I should have a well-practiced response locked and loaded, but somehow, sitting here in a tiny coffee shop without having spent months examining detailed financial reports, this feels too personal to offer a generic “You’re welcome.” I offer a follow-up question and awkwardly shift the subject a bit instead.
“It’s just a hobby for you then? You seemed at home in the studio.”
He leans closer to me as he sets his espresso back on the table. Instead of straightening back up, he shifts closer still, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely, obviously deep in thought once more.
“The glass is a part of me. It clawed its way into my soul the first moment I laid my hands on a blowpipe and pair of crimps. My style has changed over the years, of course. It’s grown and shifted right along with me. It was generic and clumsy in my first high school art class. When I fell in love for the first time at nineteen, it was bright and vibrant. Wide rippling bowls and circular vases in golds and reds and vivid oranges, swirling colors and soft, rounded edges. When my heart was broken for the first time, I lost all of that color and found relief in tall, thin sculptures of black and white, vases with necks too thin to hold flowers, too fragile to hold water. When I was hurt…when I escaped, I created large wall displays with angles and points thin and sharp enough to draw accidental blood. These days, it’s a bit of everything. A compilation of everyone that I've been and everything that I've been through. It’s how I’ve learned to express myself. It’s my release and my comfort, my frustration and anger. It's my heart on my sleeve, my soul on display. I couldn't imagine my life without it.”
It feels like the breath has been knocked out of my lungs by the time he finishes speaking. Did he really just say all of that? Who hurt him, and what has he escaped? This is only the second time we've interacted, and it’s the first time we’ve met up outside of a professional setting. How is he capable of being so secure with himself that he’s willing to share such private thoughts with a stranger? I don’t understand how it’s possible for anyone to so clearly recognize all the small, contrasting pieces of themselves let alone how to find a way to accept all of them.