Eve saw a man in swim trunks, face mask, and snorkel mime swimming along Broadway for a crowd that found it absolutely hilarious.
“Do you have extreme soundproofing in that hotel of yours?”
“We do have excellent soundproofing. We also have windows that open a few inches. You’d be amazed at how many prefer the noise.”
“That’s because they probably live on some prairie somewhere and never hear anything but… whatever else lives on prairies somewhere.”
“Gophers?”
“Okay. Do gophers make sounds?”
“I can’t say I’ve ever actually heard one, but mammals tend to.”
“They’re like big, fat squirrels, right? They probably make squirrel sounds, but bigger.”
“Well, now I’m curious.”
As they walked, he pulled out his PPC, did a search. And came up with a kind of squeaking.
“See, like a rat, and squirrels are furry rats, so gophers are big squirrels.” She scrubbed her hands over her face.
“I’m punchy. I’m having my ears assaulted by crazy people everywhere and talking about gophers, so I’m punchy.”
They turned into the hotel parking. “But I’m driving.”
And while she did, Jonathan Harper Ebersole walked up First Avenue. He felt excited, vindicated, prepared.
He knew the two portraits he’d begun—and he considered the first nearly finished—were his best work. The blind-to-true-talent gallery managers, the ignorant art critics, the shortsighted art collectors would all eat their words.
Galleries would soon vie to show his work. They’d beg. They’d grovel. The critics would shower him with praise, and the collectors would pay—oh, they would pay—for the privilege of owning a J. H. Ebersole.
He could see it. He could feel it. He could taste it.
Tonight, he would begin a third portrait. He’d thought to wait, to complete the first two before beginning another.
But he simply couldn’t. Nothing, he understood now, could replace that energy, that flood of power when he squeezed the life out of the model and into his hands.
Then onto the canvas.
It was that energy that propelled him, that life that streamed into his art.
No, he couldn’t wait to begin the next.
And because he couldn’t wait, he’d come earlier in the evening than before. But he saw her, the one he’d chosen for a kind of immortality. The shape of her face worked for him, with its softly rounded chin and the slightly bowed mouth.
He could see her with her face cleaned of the layers of makeup, and the luxurious wig covering the ridiculous blue hair. While her skin tone was deeper than he wanted, he could overlook that because she had the long, slender neck he needed.
He caught her eye, and as he’d hoped, she strutted toward him, farther away from the others who worked her trade.
“Looking for some fun, sweet cheeks?”
He shifted so she blocked him from any of her coworkers’ prying eyes.
“I’d like to hire you.”
“That’s what I’m here for, sweets. You pay, we play.”
“I want to paint you.”
