14. Sylvia
SYLVIA
Where is my date bra?
Merrie said you don’t need it.
Neither do you.
Yes, I do! BBall final game Wednesday and BS is playing.
Brandon Singh does not need to see your date bra.
My date bra.
My date bra on you.
LOL It makes me feel HOT.
You don’t need to feel hot for…
Wait. Why do you need it? Do you have a date? WITH MIKE?
I’m not telling.
Bring back the bra without BS ever having seen it.
MOM!
D oesn’t it figure that Sierra would take my date bra when I finally need it?
I appreciate her strategy but it doesn’t get me a sexy bra.
I go through the collection of sports bras that have loyally served their time once more, in case a new lace bra has spontaneously manifested in the drawer.
No luck.
And that makes me feel old and undesirable.
Even remembering the heat in Mike’s eyes doesn’t completely dismiss that feeling.
I could go shopping, but that means driving to Havelock and maybe not even finding anything there. Tick tock. My painting time is evaporating, and I refuse to lose it over underwear.
It has been a long time since Mike saw me naked.
Memory isn’t going to do me any favours and neither will bright lights.
The date bra might not even be able to save the situation.
I’ve no doubt that he looks amazing – his T-shirts don’t leave a lot to the imagination – but he hasn’t borne a child.
Things sag that used to be taut. Eighteen seems a long, long time ago.
I scrutinize myself in the mirror. I don’t look bad for my age, but I really could have used the emotional support of fine lingerie today.
As ever, I will shoulder on with what I’ve got and try to make it work. The newest sports bra wins the toss.
Una is sleeping in today, so I leave quietly. I consider the distance to Queen Street and decide to walk, leaving the car behind. Walking gives me the chance to look around a bit more.
It is possible that I am dawdling, as Una would put it.
I’m certainly not in a rush to put pencil to paper and see what happens. What is it about finally having a chance to do something that steals your desire to do it?
I have a load of new art supplies and a studio of my own.
Forty-eight hours ago, I would never have expected to be so lucky.
Sierra has gone back to Toronto and is in school now – I have the text messages to prove it – and Una is napping.
Merrie is happily checking out a butcher two towns over who is reputed to make great sausages. I have an entire day to myself.
Instead of drawing, I’m thinking about Mike.
No, I’m thinking about sex with Mike. Will indulging once be enough to satisfy my curiosity? Maybe, maybe not.
I thought I had been forthright, even blunt, but there’s not been a word from him since he dropped us off. He has to be at work now, but I did expect to hear something. I thought he might call Una’s place last night, but no. Maybe he left me a message at the bistro.
Empire is like a ghost town again, not a sign of movement as I stop at the antique store. It’s open – or at least the front door is unlocked. I shout a greeting and someone answers me from deep inside the store.
I walk through the shadows, navigating a path around the pieces of furniture, and find Willow in the back.
There’s a work area there, with tools on the wall, a workbench and a painter’s tarp spread on the floor.
In the middle of it is a highboy dresser that has been sanded down and primed.
The drawers are standing on end on another dropsheet, their hardware removed.
Willow is frowning at the dresser and walking around it.
She’s wearing the denim overalls and sandals that she favours, her long hair tied up in a ponytail, and a smear of primer on her nose.
“Turquoise or indigo?” she asks, indicating the two paint cans that sit open. There’s a swatch of each color painted on the back of the furniture.
“Why not both?” I ask and she nods approval.
“Why not both. Brilliant.” She considers this for a minute then turns a radiant smile on me. “How can I help you?”
I explain that I’d like her help in choosing a few pieces for the studio. “Just so I have somewhere to sit,” I say and she nods understanding.
I like Willow. I didn’t know her well in high school, though, of course, I knew who she was.
She was always a bit quiet – and always creative.
She helped get the bistro outfitted and did it so quickly once she saw Merrie’s vision board that the fabulous result seemed easy, even pre-ordained.
The truth is that she has an excellent eye so the smartest choice is to just let her do what she does.
She also has the inventory memorized in her uncle’s store and his barns, the ones that are filled with architectural salvage.
You could never explore and choose as quickly as Willow shops her mental inventory.
Today is no exception. She’s dragging pieces to the door in record time. I help her carry her choices down the street, wondering how they’re going to all look together.
They look perfect. Of course.
I end up with a chaise lounge that could have come from a bordello or a vampire’s refuge.
It has to be over a hundred years old, all tufted and stuffed with horsehair.
(It weighs a ton or maybe even a tonne.) It’s been upholstered recently in deep purple cut velvet with long black fringe on all the sides.
The wood must have been painted glossy black at the same time.
Willow insists it will set the mood. It perches on a grey square of broadloom that has been edged, probably fifteen feet on a side, with a little wrought iron garden table to keep it company. All these I can envision together, but not so much the sturdy armchair upholstered in needlepoint roses.
I am informed that this is also a rescue, as Willow calls it, since the chair is impossible to sell – serious ‘old lady vibes’ – but she can’t bear to destroy the needlepoint.
She’s even found me an easel and a table already adorned with paint ‘that I won’t be afraid to spill on.’
Willow vanishes as I debate the chair. It’s really comfortable and the needlework is exquisite, if not my taste. I can put a throw over it, maybe. She returns with an old floor lamp, one with a battered shade. She plugs it in, positions it, and tosses a silk scarf over top.
“Poof,” she says. “Instant atmosphere.”
And she’s right. The scarf is deep pink, so the studio gets a rosy glow.
The light is much softer and more flattering.
She’s also brought me a fluffy throw for the chair, adhering to the pink, purple and black theme.
I tuck the throw around the seat cushion.
It looks really good, a cozy little corner in the otherwise stark industrial space.
“All I need is a cup of tea.”
“You’ll have to ask Merrie for that.”
We smile at each other. “Do you want a cup?”
“No, I have to get back to that dresser.” She looks around with satisfaction. “But thanks for the Monday morning challenge. I’m glad you like it.” She holds up a finger. “ Why not both. Wait until you see it.”
And she’s gone, leaving me in the silent studio once again. It’s not even ten o’clock.
Silence from my phone.
But I never gave Mike my number.
Silence from the café’s phone. I go downstairs to check. No messages. No email messages from the website either, unless you count two reservations, neither from Mike. (I don’t.)
Back upstairs, I set up an easel and place a canvas on it.
I sort out my new paints and brushes, arranging them in a routine that used to get my creative juices flowing.
I have nothing. I look out the window at the back alley behind the restaurant.
It’s bleak, even in summer, all concrete and parking spaces, hydro lines and broken curbs.
I still have nothing.
Mike isn’t coming.
And why would he, almost first thing in the morning? He has a day job. The earliest he might show up is lunchtime.
I should have gotten his number and given him mine.
I take a sketchbook and a selection of pencils, lock up the studio and head out for a walk.
The obvious composition would include an abandoned store front, the windows papered over, maybe a glass pane broken.
The retail space two doors west of The Carpe Diem Café would be a contender for that subject, but it doesn’t stir me.
Nor does the empty Emporium, even with its elaborately carved double doorway.
Why would I want to immortalize economic sadness?
Drawing the café seems a little precious.
Even the Odéon theatre in the midst of its restoration fails to pique my interest. A number of pick-up trucks, each with the logo of a contractor on the side, are now parked in front of it.
I keep going. The Golden Lotus could be trapped in time, as I’m sure it hasn’t changed at all.
I consider the Grand Hotel, considerably less grand now than even how I remember it, but there are too many memories for me associated with that place.
Why would I want to immortalize the place where Mike and I broke up?
I walk to the end of the street, and spin in place.
The thrift store has the aura of thrift stores everywhere – and probably the same smell inside.
The little convenience store is sending salsa music into the air but I can’t see anyone inside.
The footpath to the cemetery looks cool and lush but uninviting. I’ve done tombstone rubbings before.