Mariah nods, letting me have my reaction. She decides to roll up the evidence of mine and Devo’s “special” connection. “I’m just going to put this in the front hall closet then,” she says softly.
“Thank you,” I whisper. Once again, I don’t deserve her.
I sit down at my desk in a huff. I’m on my fifth sketch of an image that had aggressively arrived in the front of my mind. It’s a white marble statue of a woman from the bellybutton up. The statue is surrounded by red velvet ropes holding back crowds of people with cameras and cellphones held above their heads. A single tear runs down the sculpture’s cheek and a hand with a chisel can be seen along the edge and away from the crowd, as if the sculptor had abandoned his piece. It feels modern. I’d never featured digital technology in my art before, but here we are. This is the world I live in. This isn’t the Renaissance.
As I work on deciding whether there’s a roof over the statue’s head or just a chasm to the stars, my phone dings. I glance over and see I’ve gotten a notification from a dating app I’d downloaded out of spite. I’d been dissatisfied in more ways than one in the last couple of weeks. At least this part I can do something about.
I unlock my phone and glance between my sketchpad and my new suitor. His name is Anton. A tentative smile touches my lips as my eyes land on his profession. I’m in control of my new direction.
Let my next chapter begin.
Chapter Eight
EXHIBITION
Four Months Later
I twist my hair up in what I hope is a fancy chignon. It feels like an artistic hair style, and if tonight’s not enough proof that I’m a real artist, I don’t know what is. On my way out the door I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I instinctively smooth the natural ruching of my navy silk dress—I know it’ll bunch up again as I continue to move around, but I can’t help myself.
My lips are a cool-toned dark cherry, and silver droplets hang from my ears. The earrings are literally shaped like oversized drops of water, and they glisten as I shake my head gently back and forth. A couple tendrils of my hair tumble forward out of my amateur chignon, but I don’t try to tuck them back in. This is firstly because I don’t know how, and I don’t want to mess up the twisted hair that is intact. Secondly, the loose bits give me a slight girlish look, while the rest of my ensemble is more mature, woman-like. I think the juxtaposition suits me. I’m 27 years old, but I feel like I’m still coming of age.
Maybe we always are.
Alright you can reflect more later,I tell myself.You can’t be late to your own Exhibition.I race downstairs as fast as I can in my two-and-a-half-inch heels, clutching the banister with one hand whilemy dainty black purse swings wildly from its silver chain in my other. Once on the sidewalk, I start to march in the direction of the subway, my normal route to the Lower East Side. But just as I get to the corner, a classic yellow cab comes toward me with its light on. If I want to romanticize my night, then this is too New York to ignore.
I bunch up the hem of my dress and hail the cab with my purse in the air. It stops immediately and I rush in. I haven’t taken a cab like this in years. If I do wind up in a car, it’s typically some kind of rideshare from an app. I let out a deep sigh and look out the window just as a few drops of rain hit the glass.
What kind of movie am I living in?? A smile creeps up the right side of my face.
“Where am I taking you, dear?” An elderly man with crinkles at the corners of his eyes and an impressive white beard turns around from the front seat.Right… I forgot that when you hail a cab the old-fashioned way, you actually have to tell the driver where you’re going. My eyes widen as I try to remember the cross streets—that's what real cab drivers want to hear, right?
“Bowery and Stanton Street,” I say. The driver turns forward with a hand hovering over his phone.
“Ah, just give me the address, that’ll be easier to put into my map,” he replies.
“Oh,” I say, hand over my heart. I’m starting to get nervous about the evening. “The Rabbit Hole Gallery.” I hope the name is good enough.
“Got it!” The driver taps on his phone and then we’re off.
I look out the window again as more rain patters down the glass. I always thought that rain was rather romantic.
I can hear my phone buzzing in my tiny purse, but at this point, if something’s gone wrong at the gallery, I’m sure Anton will inform me when I get there.
“So where are you off to all dressed up?” The bearded driver and I make eye contact in his rearview mirror. He seems friendly,and his aura puts me at ease. I can’t say that’s the case for every strange man you’re trapped in close quarters with.
“I’m going to an art exhibition,” I reply and smile, looking back out the window. “Paintings, actually.”
“Ah, paintings! Beautiful!”
I give a small nod.
He continues, “Now don’t you stray away from the pieces that make you uncomfortable! That’s when your mind really expands.” He makes an exploding motion with one of his hands off the side of his head.
“No, I won’t,” I respond. “I didn’t.” I say the second part just for myself.
We pull up to the gallery and I step out onto the damp sidewalk, careful to avoid the subway grate with my heels. “Thank you.” I wave back to the cab driver as I go to step inside.
“Charlotte, Charlotte!” Rob comes bounding over. “You’re never going to believe who’s?—”
