Gavin puts his hand on my lower back. The touch is light but I still shiver. “There are a few pieces I want your opinion on.”
“You’ve put this together. I don’t think you need my opinion.”
“Of course I don’t need your opinion. But I want it. You’ve got great taste.”
That hand is still on my lower back and he’s giving me compliments. I feel proud. And giddy. Like an unfamiliar lightness is bubbling up in me and nothing else can be that bad because that hand and those compliments are here to get me through it. Is this what relationships feel like?
Maybe this is why people go out of their way to get changed after work and find bars with like-minded people. Why they download apps, taking up precious space on limited cell phones that could be used to take pictures of art and dogs and contract provisions.
I think this is worth coming home at 5:00 p.m. for. To chase that feeling.
I mean, I’ll still have to put in some work after I go home. Five is way too early to stop working when there’s so much to do. But it would be nice to do it with someone else on the other side of the couch. And not just Sonia.
Could we really do it? Or would the hundred annoying little things keeping us apart get in the way over time?
Is holding on to this feeling worth the fights?
And will the feeling even stay? Will it fade? Or will it get even deeper, maybe becoming love?
“Riya, the painting I want you to see is over here.” Gavin pulls me toward it.
I don’t know how long he’s been trying to get me where he wants me, but considering the impatience in his pulling, it might have been a while.
“Do you think it’s going to jump off the wall and run away?”
“Maybe someone here has slippery fingers,” he whispers in my ear.
“They’re all richer than Croesus and you and Bill Gates combined.”
“You know they’d just do it for the thrill.”
Well, I can’t argue with that.
“What do you think?” Gavin asks me when he stops in front of some art.
“Hmm. I think you shouldn’t ask me about contemporary art. Except for a few artists Loot sells that I love, I tap out of the contemporary world.”
“But you still know what sells.”
“Fine. It shows promise because it feels very Banksy, and it’s charming. But I think the edgier collectors won’t find it new and unique enough. Sell it quick before the entire market catches up with the edgier collectors.”
“Now this one.”
I turn to the next painting he indicates. “Oh, I like this series.” It references classic paintings and sculptures in the style of thirst trap Instagram posts, complete with sassy comments. “I’d put this in my room and make a show about it.” I consider. “Actually...” I get my phone out of my clutch and take a quick picture, then zoom in and get a picture of the signature. Or what could be the signature. It’s a bit squiggly.
“Seriously?” Gavin asks me.
“What, Hercules? There’s no sign saying I can’t.” I’ll respect a sign, but without it, I’m photo-documenting everything.
“I knew I forgot something.” Gavin snaps his fingers.
“Who’s the artist?” I ask nonchalantly.
“No way, Riya. You aren’t getting this artist.”
“We’ll see.” I send the photo to Sonia so she can get the research team tracking the artist down based on the work and ambiguous signature.
We walk around the room, checking out the rest of the new talent. There’s nothing as good as thirst trap art history, so the rest of Gavin’s art is safe.
