Chapter Nine
B y five o’clock, there was already a line forming to get into the show. My palms were sweaty and my stomach felt like I’d been in a freefall for hours. The exhibit was ready. I was ready. The line of people around the block were ready.
This was happening.
When Carla and Liz finally opened the doors and started admitting people– paying customers , all here to see my art, and maybe even buy something they loved. I tried my best not to fidget, to stand up straight, but the more and more and more people that came in, the more my shoulders slumped, shrinking myself.
There were a lot of people.
The only pieces up were mine except for the small photography collection in the corner about the history of the gallery and how it came to be.
I felt like the damn mayor; people wanted pictures with me and they shook my hand. People hovered, waiting to speak with me, with genuine interest in their eyes.
“Your art is so beautiful.”
“You’re so young!”
“So much talent!”
“How do you find the time to make so many pieces?” I answered everyone’s questions and even posed for some pictures. Everyone wanted to talk about Her and I was happy to discuss how long it took to paint, the techniques I used, the dreams I had of the sea. They all smiled and listened with rapt attention, fondness and warmth on their faces when I would talk about how vividly I’d dream of the ocean, and how hard it would be to wake up. I’d never been this openly vulnerable, and it was liberating. The tortured soul of an artist was always something fun to listen to.
Within an hour, I had reached my limit of socializing, and wanted to go home but not wanting the night to end. So far, seven of my pieces have sold. Carla and Liz were thrilled. They helped me price everything, and I had made almost two thousand dollars. This was a high I didn’t think I’d ever come down from.
“Excuse me, are you Owen Harper?” a sweet, melodic voice said. I’d been standing right next to Her , and at first I thought the painting had spoken to me. I searched again for the voice, and then I saw a woman with pink hair and my throat closed up. My whole body shivered, desperate for me to walk over to her, to touch her and see if she was just a mirage.
My eyes drifted between the painting and the woman standing in front of me. Her long pink hair had about twenty thin braids in it, mixing with the length of her hair. She stood with her hands folded in front of her, the teal dress she wore clinging just so to her hips. Her face was one of those that would be perfect for a portrait, symmetrical and pleasing, with gentle angles that made her inviting to talk to.
I know, because she was a mirror image of the mermaid I’d been dreaming of for years.
She was identical to the woman sitting on a rock, looking sorrowful, longing for the sea that I had painted.
She looked just like my mermaid in Her .