A Pop Art Kiss
Maeve
A funny thing happens on Monday morning as I head into the studio space in the Mission District that I share with a handful of other artists in the city.
Sometimes I paint here, but I also work on my side hustle—decorative art like lamps, mirrors, and vases—since, well, it’s at least steady.
While I’m refurbishing some antique mirrors by adding rhinestones and gems to sparkle them up, I replay that kiss from the other night.
Again.
What is wrong with my brain? It wasn’t even a real kiss. We were like two actors on stage.
Actors don’t linger over stage kisses, I suspect. I shouldn’t either.
And yet as I affix tiny pink rhinestones to an art deco mirror that I’ll sell at the night market, the kiss plays on repeat.
His lips were soft but confident. He smelled like soap and maybe oak, clean and woodsy.
It felt a little like a kiss in a painting.
Like the kind I secretly paint when I get extra studio time and when I have the space to myself.
Like the kind I want to sell someday because of the way they make me feel.
Warm, heady, like honey. Like I’m the woman in a Roy Lichtenstein painting, kissed in that pop art style, living my life in bold lines and bright colors.
But kisses in paintings aren’t real.
So why am I binging on it? Maybe because it was empirically a good kiss? Yeah, that makes sense. That’s why it’s looping in my brain. Good kisses are like chocolates, poems, and songs. They stay with you.
I set down the mirror on a workbench and pick up a brush instead. Maybe if I paint the kiss, I’ll get it out of my head.
Trouble is, I think about the kiss again the next day, and the next, and by Friday morning, it’s a little overwhelming in my head.
I should not be thinking too long on one single, short kiss.
I can’t cling to Asher like this, even in my head, so I vow to shake off the kiss once and for all as I pack for Vegas, and head out to see my friends before I catch the flight.
“Guess who still hasn’t heard about the super-secret awesome job?
” I announce when I reach their table at Moon Over Milkshakes, our favorite retro-themed diner buzzing with the morning crowd.
Setting my overnight bag down on the pink tiled floor, I slide into the mint green booth where my friends are already gathered, the air rich with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon.
Josie and Fable are draining big coffee mugs.
Everly’s cup likely contains a London fog latte.
She’s as loyal to that drink as she is to her friends.
Leighton’s here, too, with a green tea. She’s a friend of Everly’s, and when Everly introduced us to her a couple months ago, we all hit it off.
Immediately, we annexed her into our friend group late last year.
Before we dive into conversation though, I wave over the server, admiring the intricate ink of flowers on her arms. “First, those are some gorgeous dahlias. Second, can I get the overnight oats and the biggest chai latte in the city?”
She smiles. “Thank you. And not only is our chai latte the biggest, it’s the best.”
“Good. Maeve likes her chai lattes big,” Josie puts in.
“And other things big too,” Fable adds under her breath.
“Of course I do,” I say, unapologetic about my preferences.
The server laughs. “Understandable.”
My friends throw in their breakfast orders. We thank the server and when she leaves, Josie sets down her mug, her blue eyes kind behind her glasses as she meets my gaze. “How are you holding up, friend? I know you were eager to hear about the job.”
I shrug, trying to hide my disappointment about the delay in the mural decision.
“I’m thinking of starting a YouTube channel—‘How to Arrange Hors d’Oeuvres Like an Artist.’ Maybe it’ll be my big break.
I can make art with mushroom canapés and bacon-wrapped shrimp!
Munch on Masterpieces by Maeve. Can you imagine how happy Aunt Vivian would be?
” My friends know my mom’s sister wants me to come on board full-time.
And then maybe run her catering company someday.
She has a good business, but it’s just not my dream.
Fable gives a sympathetic smile from across the table. “Just because you haven’t heard yet about the mural doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”
She’s sweet to say that, but the writing’s on the wall.
When we talked on the phone yesterday Angelina said no news is good news, but she also urged me to focus on other options, so I’m thinking that’s her agent-y way of softening the eventual blow.
I ought to try harder to mask my disappointment when I’m with my friends.
I don’t really want to be the downer of the group, especially when they’re all thriving in their careers.
Everly’s the publicist for the Sea Dogs, recently promoted.
Josie’s the most amazing digital librarian.
And Fable is the lead merch designer for the Renegades, one of the city’s football teams, while also running a growing Etsy shop for her jewelry designs.
Leighton’s a freelance photographer, and even though she’s the youngest of us, she’s already making some inroads with boudoir sessions, lifestyle, and sports photography. I’m the only one of us floundering.
After my mom died, the royalties from her books went to my dad, then to my brother and me, and now, ten years later, they go toward renting my shared studio space, which feels like exactly what my mother would have wanted for me.
And yet, the money won’t last forever, and soon, I might have to make some tough choices.
“It’s fine,” I say, waving away the pesky idea of a viable career. “If the YouTube thing doesn’t work out, I’ll learn how to grow money trees. I have a green thumb. How hard can it be to plant a few coins in the soil and watch them bloom into big bills?”
“Sign me up,” Leighton quips. After a chuckle, she shifts to a more serious tone. “Who is the mural job with?”
“You did one for the Noe Valley Business Association just the other month, right?” Everly puts in.
“Yes!” I say, touched Everly remembered that recent assignment.
“I did a design stretching across a brick building in that neighborhood representing the small businesses in the area, from glasses shops to restaurants to toy stores. That was the lead submission in the portfolio Angelina submitted for me.”
As we chat, the server arrives with my chai latte. She sets down plates, too—the overnight oats, omelets, and pancakes. “The biggest and the best. Let me know if you need anything else,” she says.
“The chance to paint a huge coffee cup and a plate of eggs and bacon on the wall,” I offer with a bright smile.
The server shoots me a bemused look. “I’ll, um, keep that in mind.”
“Thanks,” I say, since I am not above begging. You never know who’s hiring.
Once the server heads to another table, Everly turns to me. “Is this super-secret job something like the neighborhood association one?”
I hesitate because I haven’t told them who the potential job is with.
There’s a reason I’ve been vague—I don’t want to be handed anything.
I don’t want them to try to intervene, and they might.
It’s one thing for me to drop a mention of my art to a server—it’s another to canvas all my friends and family for a boost.
My mother was a writer, and she taught me both the value of art and the value of self-worth.
“If you love what you do, then chase it with all your heart, even when it feels like chasing the hem of a cloud,” she’d said.
“Chances are, it’ll feed your artist’s soul.
And the artist’s soul is very, very hungry. ”
Most days, my artist’s soul is a ravenous beast. I chase my dreams with running shoes on, not jumping the line like a nepo baby.
I want to be good enough on my own. I want it so badly it hurts sometimes.
The waiting has been dragging me down for more than a week, and if I don’t share this longing, it’ll weigh me down too.
“I’ll tell you,” I say, warning them, “but you can’t tell your guys.”
Josie lifts a hand in an oath. “Girls only.”
Everly nods solemnly. “It won’t leave this booth.”
Fable says, “Padlocker promise.”
I smile at the name. It started as a joke last fall when we promised we’d be Everly’s padlock when she was tempted by the team’s goalie, now her boyfriend. The name stuck, though, because we look out for each other.
“It’s with the Sea Dogs,” I whisper.
Everly gasps. “You’re being considered for that mural project? I wrote the press release announcing our search for local artists.”
She showed it to me last month and suggested I submit my portfolio.
The team is commissioning a fun, cartoon-y mural of San Francisco for the inside of its arena to celebrate its partnerships with the city.
One side of the arena’s concessions area is closed for renovations right now, and the team is hoping to reopen it with some city-centric new art.
“Yes, you did. And when you mentioned it to me, I immediately told Angelina, and she said I’m already on the list.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Everly admonishes me playfully.
“I know,” I admit. “I didn’t want you to feel like you had to put in a word for me. Also, I wanted to get through the first round on my own merits.”
“That’s understandable,” Josie says.
“So what’s next then?” Fable asks.
“More waiting.” I sigh. I made it through the first round, but then they cast a wider net. “But it’s fine. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m not getting it.”
“Why?” Leighton asks with genuine curiosity. “Why does this mean it won’t be you? Maybe they’re just doing their due diligence.”
“I second that,” Josie says with an I’m with her nod. “Besides, aren’t you the closet optimist? You once told me I shouldn’t be afraid to say my dreams out loud.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You and your iron trap of a memory.”
My longtime friend stares me down. “Well…?”