“Yeah. He was always the one after you to keep up the art stuff.”
“Exactly. I didn’t much feel like it anymore.”
“And now you do,” she says, gently. “Keep going, since you’re on a roll. I’ll go get us fancy coffees and then I’m off to teach my workshop.”
“Oh my God! Your dance workshop’s today? Wait. Isn’t that like, soon?” I hop up. “You go shower. I’ll get us coffees.”
“Really? You don’t mind?”
“Hell, no. I’ve got to check in on Mom anyway. Go! I’ve got this.” And maybe I’ll just happen to glance at the message board while I’m there.
On the way, I pass two people holding hands as they stroll slowly down the path, wearing nothing but boy short underwear and lots of piercings all over. With lazy smiles, they hold up their coffee cups in salute. I wave hello and keep my eyes up, although what I really want is to open up my sketch pad and draw. Now that the seal’s been broken, I’ve gone from zero creativity to non-stop creation.
In a funny way, it doesn’t even feel creative. My mind’s not making this stuff up, my hand’s just drawing what I see. I’m like a conduit or something. It’s liberating to not worry about form or content or design and just draw.
I used to love doing this, before art school and the accident. It’s like exercising long-neglected muscles. It feels amazing.
There’s another stone sculpture by the path near the main building. This one’s a writhing knot of naked men, engaging in love or war. Fighting or fucking, so intermingled in this place.
My footsteps slow and—with no one around to see—I stroke a hand down a muscled stone back. Its rough finish feels sensuous beneath my fingertips. I lean in. Up close, I see just how meticulous the work is—the level of detail sort of astounding for a piece this massive, this…brutal. It’s so alive, so full of emotion and tension, some of it hums through my own veins.
A little breathless, I walk into the coffee shop to find Lamé doing an acrobatic dance behind the bar, which evolves, when she sees me, into jumping and slithering,
“Hey, girl!”
“Hi.” I wave. “Let me send this real quick.”
I text my mom for news and wait for the reply. She’s fine. I’m fine. Vacation’s great.
I don’t say dreamy. Dreamy would be a step too far. She’d want details about dreamy.
Details there’s no way I can share. Not with Mom, at least.
I look up, finally, to see Lamé watching me with wide-open eyes, leaning forward, elbow on the bar, chin in her hand. “How are you?”
I could make up some crap, but I don’t. That’s the thing about Kink Camp. The truth comes out eventually.
“I’m kind of…I don’t know. Raw?”
Her brows fly up. “Tell me all.”
“I saw him again last night.”
Her eyes get impossibly wider. “Reaaaaaally?”
“We…made out. God, we did a lot. We talked.”
“Talked?” Lamé swoops down the counter, then back, her skates loud, even with the music. “You talked? Like words?”
“Actual conversation.” I watch her frenetic back and forth. “We kissed and then—”
“Youkissed?” With a yelp, Lamé disappears behind the bar.
I race around to find her on the ground, legs sprawled in front of her, like some hyper-sexualized Bambi, and squat beside her. “You okay?”
“Oh my God!” She’s laughing. “I’m such a klutz!”
“You’re wearing roller skates.”
