“There’s an Art District?” Matt asks.
“Matt, notanArt District,theArt District of LA! Let me explain… the Art District has given life to industrial buildings dating back to the early twentieth century. The art has been slowly created, mostly behind closed doors, but the street scene has come to life. Art galleries and museums have opened,creating a large art presence in the area… I come here to buy my supplies,” he tells me, and I light up instantly.
“This is how I knew we would get along so well, Nate,” I say, and he nods.
“Sooo, you live in a really cool part of LA, then?” Matt questions.
“Yeah, it’s kind of cool.” I giggle as Dwayne pulls down Sunset Boulevard, heading toward my place.
“So what are you fine young cannonballs doing tonight?” I ask.
Nate laughs. “I think you’ll find it’sFine Young Cannibals.” He smirks.
“We’ll head home and have some dinner. I’ll check in with Oliver for what’s on task for tomorrow, and Nate will get some rest because he hasa lotof painting to do, right?”
I scoff. “Cannibals… what? Why the fuck would they call themselves that? It’s just weird. But I digress. Yes, Nate, rest up and get ready to work. I’m gonna be pushing you hard to produce new work for the gallery and quickly.”
They both look happy as the car pulls into the Art District—my home. Sure, the buildings are industrial and old, but fuck if the artwork on them doesn’t make up for it. It’s dark, so it’s hard to see the raw beauty of the streets as they flash past outside the car, but everywhere is lined with colorful art. Each building is alive and screaming with vibrant masterpieces. Nate is beside me, admiring the beauty, while Matt sits with his eyes as wide as his mouth.
“Holy shit, this is an artist’s paradise,” Matt murmurs.
“It sure is. Up here on the left, the building with the giant giraffe mural on it, Dwayne,” I instruct, but he doesn’t reply, pulling up to the curb at the edge of the street.
My building is only three stories, but it’s an old factory that’s been converted into apartments. It’s so cool because the inside looks like a warehouse, too.
We all pile out of the car—me juggling my umpteen bags of food while the guys trail behind, their wide eyes fixed on the sight ahead. Together, we gather at the edge of the footpath, our gazes drawn upward to the sprawling mural towering over the building.
“Who painted this, Alex?” Nate asks.
I smirk. “Me.”
He opens his eyes wide and scoffs. “Really?”
I nod as Matt smiles. “She sells art, and she makes it.”
“I’m a woman of many hidden talents, Matthew,” I respond. “Including stuffing my face. Anyway, love you guys, but I love food more. So, adios amigos. Thanks for a good night and a great day. See you tomorrow, Natesicles. And Matt, I’ll ah… see ya ’round?”
Matt nods with a shy smile and looks at the painting on the wall once more. “Maybe you should let Alex paint some stuff at the gallery, Nate?” Matt suggests, and I tense up.
“Oh no, that’s Nate’s gallery, not mine. Anyway, my stomach’s agrowlin’, so have a good night, twinsies.” I turn, heading for the building’s door. My hands are full of Taco Bell bags, but somehow, I manage to fumble and get my keys out of my satchel. I turn back and watch as the brothers slide back into the car. Smiling, I head inside and up the stairs toward my apartment. The view from the third floor is amazing, and I love it, but sometimes, on nights like tonight, with my hands full and when I’ve had a few drinks, the stairs are a bitch.
Traipsing up the three flights, I groan once I reach my door. The key goes into the lock easily, and I turn it with a click. Thrusting the door open with a gentle kick, I step inside the giant room. Basically, it’s one massive open area with everythingI could possibly need. The night sky floods in through the floor-to-ceiling window, and I take in the silver streaks from the moon. Using my elbow, I flick on the light switch, and the filament light globes that hang from the exposed roof beams hum to life with an amber glow, lighting up the room with a blissful sparkle. It fills me with such warmth.
My home—it’s so me. Every inch of it. From the incredible artistry on the exposed brick walls to the open black bookshelves attached to the bricks. The gray sofa with brightly colored cushions scattered on it, to the metal fabricated dining table, and the plush faux fur rug on the floor under the coffee table in the shape of an apostrophe.
Why?Why not?
My bed is an unpretentious queen antique white Victorian metal, with simple silver bedding. I like to have color in my life in all aspects. It makes me feel, it wakes me up, but when I go to bed, I like to be calm and tranquil, so I avoid color and anything that might stimulate my brain. Otherwise, I overthink and can’t sleep.
The kitchen area is mainly steel, wood, and brick. There’s a small sink, a dishwasher, and an oven, with a giant L-shaped counter against the wall. In the back corner, I have my little artist area, where I paint and draw—I refer to it as my free spirit section, where I turn on my music and let things happen. It’s my area to unwind and lose myself in my passion.
That’s where the most color is located in the apartment. There’s a giant work desk packed full of paints and brushes, easels and canvases. As much as I enjoy that area, I don’t think I’ll get to spend much time there, seeing as I’m working so much for Nate, but that’s cool.
Work keeps me busy, keeps me distracted, and stops me from thinking. Thinking about the past and what happened. I know I need to let that go—how everything went so terribly wrong forme. But look at me now, everything is turning up, and that’s what I need to focus on. That and the Taco Bell that’s currently going cold in my hands.
I kick the door closed with my foot and race to the couch, kicking off my shoes before I jump onto the plushness of my cushions. “Yesss!” I moan, sinking into the softness, and dump the bags onto the coffee table. “Tacos get in me!” I rip open the bags and get ready to devour my dinner before making a phone call—one I need to make but one I’m not looking forward to.
After spending the next twenty minutes devouring my fast-food Mexican feast, I slump back on the sofa, my belly popping out slightly while I sigh with satisfaction. “Man, I love food, but fuck, I hate phone calls,” I murmur to myself as I reach over to my cell, located on the coffee table.
