Joe disappeared behind the canvas, the crown of his shiny bald head visible above the easel. The sound of his paintbrush against the canvas echoed softly through the garage as Alice focused on her breathing, trying to ignore the discomfort. She was hyperaware of the unnatural position of her limbs, of the sweat collecting above her lip, which she fought the urge to wipe away.
“How’s the writing going?” Joe asked.
“The writing?” Alice asked, returning to the garage, the awkward positioning of her limbs.
“Oh dear, I hope I didn’t overstep. Don’t worry, I won’t ask you what you’re working on. It’s always seemed so intrusive to me when people ask writers what they’re working on. Describing a book that’s not fully formed is like asking a pregnant woman what her unborn child is going to look like. It sets her up for disappointment when that perfect creature comes out wrinkled and alien.”
Alice laughed.
“Don’t laugh. It changes your face. Well, you don’t have to scowl either. Just be.”
“You know how hard that is, to just be?”
“Not the Buddha on the mountaintop type?”
“Did I have you fooled?” Alice asked hopefully.
Now it was Joe’s turn to laugh. “Not for a minute.”
They were quiet again, and Alice realized that Joe was waiting for her to tell him about her writing.
“Did Hank tell you about my writing?” Since Hank had set her up with Joe on these portraits dates, he hadn’t mentioned the prospect of a story again. This led Alice to regard that the matter as settled, both silently agreeing it was a bad idea. If he’d mentioned it to Joe, that meant he was holding out hope that she would deliver. She felt a swell of guilt as she wondered if she may be disappointing Hank.
“Yes and no. You know Hank. He prefers to talk in abstractions. He’s excited about whatever it is though. Alice, you’re frowning again.”
“Sorry,” she said, trying for a neutral expression.
“I’ve written a few stories,” she said evasively, “I don’t think I have the stomach to be a writer.”
“Spoken like a true artist. I know we’re all supposed to pretend we’re immune to criticism. I’ve been painting for forty years, and it still kills me every time someone doesn’t like my work. But every time you get a little stronger. Every time you trust your gut a little more.”
It sounded nice, following your gut, except Alice’s always directed her to quit, to give up, to run. She didn’t know how to feel through that doubt to something deeper that would encourage her to continue.
“Knock, knock.” Hank opened the door without knocking.
“Why do you always say that when you could just actually knock?” Joe asked.
“I’m simply here to inform you that it’s quarter after five, which means we are fifteen minutes late for happy hour. Palomas are waiting on the deck.”
Joe added a few final brushstrokes, then loosely covered the canvas. “This one can’t be trusted not to peek,” he said, pointing to Hank, who shrugged.
Alice followed the two men through the house to the deck, where Hank had put out a pitcher along with chips and guacamole. She listened politely as Joe and Hank debated the merits, or lack thereof, of a film they’d seen earlier that week, zoning out as their disagreement continued. They were another example of one of her successful stories, one she hadn’t even realized she’d written. Would they have met without her tale of the tortoise and the tricycle? She hoped so, but she could never really know because the story was an inextricable part of their love.
“Okay, let’s not make this personal,” Joe said, pretending to be hurt.
“My artist,” Hank said, rubbing his back. “I forget how thin his skin is.”
Joe stuck his tongue out at him, and Hank laughed. Below them something rustled in the waterless riverbed, startling them. It was only a squirrel darting up the opposite side.
“Was there water when you moved in?” Alice asked. Judging from the overgrown bougainvillea and moss snaking the rocks, the riverbed looked like it had been dry for a long time.
Joe gave her a peculiar look. “There’s still water. You’re telling me you can’t see the water?”
“Stop.” Hank swatted at him. “You’re confusing the poor girl.”
“I just want her to see it. Right there.” He leaned over the deck railing and pointed to a spot in the dry basin. “See the trout? Sometimes, when Hank forgets to go to the store and we have nothing to eat, we cast a rod and that guy’s dinner.”
“You don’t have to play along,” Hank said to Alice.
