My husband seems to operate in a time zone all his own, taking meetings at all times of the day. According to his schedule, he slept last night between 1 a.m. and 5 a.m. I’m not even sure if he came back to the apartment, or if he just crashed on the couch in his office. All I know is that when I woke up and peered in his bedroom, his bed was just as perfectly made as it was the night before.
I'm in the kitchen, making myself an overly complicated sandwich to fill the time, when the head mover joins me, wiping a rag across his sweaty forehead. Sweat from lugging my rocks around.
“Can I get you a glass of water or anything?” I ask guiltily.
“My guys and I are fine,” he reassures me. “And for the record, your husband’s a good tipper. Congratulations on your wedding.”
“Thanks.”
The movers trundle out, while I awkwardly wave at them from the kitchen counter, where I eat my sandwich standing up.
Finally, I'm alone in the apartment with my boxes and a plate full of crumbs. I’m still dying to paint, but there’s the tiny problem of the huge pile of boxes filling my studio.
I bite my lip, thinking. I should unpack first, but I’ve been dying to get to work all day, and I don’t want to wait any longer. So what’s the big deal if I bring some rocks and a hammer into the kitchen? It’s not like James will be home, anyway. His schedule has him coming back at twenty minutes till midnight, for our purple-coded baby-making session.
I’ll just open the first box I see, I decide. If it has inspiring paint or stones, I’ll let myself work in the kitchen. If it's full of junk, that's the universe telling me to honor my half of the agreement.
When I rip up the box, I'm greeted by a dim rainbow. My face splits into a grin. After talking to a local jewelry maker, he agreed to sell me any flawed opals his suppliers sent him, anything with cracks or imperfections. Since I’m smashing them to dust anyway, it doesn’t matter to me. Their opalescent shine can be useful mixed into any number of my paints.
Thanks, universe.
Right now, I’m somewhat limited by the kinds of stone I can use. I don’t have the industrial equipment to crush or grind harder rocks, mostly because I have nowhere to put it. Most large crushers are meant for construction sites, not breaking down individual stones for paint pigment. Maybe one day I’ll be able to upgrade my setup, but for now, I make do with manual tools, even if they’re hell on my muscles.
It takes me some digging to find the box with my favorite crushing tools. I’ve got a set of variously sized hammers and aconcrete slab to protect the floor. I’m not strong enough to lug it upstairs to my studio, but luckily, the balcony has a cement base.
I wrap myself in my wool coat and scatter the opals over a thick plastic sheet on the balcony. Pulling on my safety goggles, I raise my hammer and start crushing.
I quickly disappear into the flow. Colors and images move through my brain. It's like this sometimes, when I don't have a firm idea. My mind just throws some ideas out there, like twisting a Kaleidoscope, each flicker of stone suggesting an idea how I might use the rocks in front of me. I focus on the movement of my hands and let my brain work. When it forms a picture I know I have to paint, that's when I'll pause to make sure I remember it.
Sooner than I’d like, the spring chill turns my already-sore hands red and stiff. I retreat back to the kitchen with my half-crushed opals gathered in the plastic sheet. Once my hands are warm enough, I’ll transfer the dust so I can use my mortar and pestle to break it down to even smaller pieces.
I make myself a cup of tea while I contemplate how to use the opal. I’ve mixed it with violet before to paint a shimmery twilight night, but I don’t want to repeat the same combination. I have an ultra-black paint I’ve been eager to try. Maybe I’ll mix a little when I’m done, just to see how it turns out.
When I pour the opal bits into the mortar, a bit spills over the edge, scattering like shimmering tears on the kitchen floor. I like the effect—maybe I’ll make some super-concentrated paint, trying to flatten the appearance of the opals.
I’m grinding the pestle down when the elevator doors open. I freeze. James isn't supposed to be back. I was supposed to have hours, hours to clean up the mess I'm currently making. Shit.
He's going to yell at me. It's what Victor would do. If I violate an agreement with him, it could mean half an hour of screaming—if I'm lucky. I'd rather face screaming than days of quiet,poisonous resentments and guilt. My father is anauteurwhen it comes to the silent treatment.
James strolls in, still wearing a full suit, pristine even after a full day of work. Meanwhile, I’m kneeling on the floor, covered in opal dust with my hair piled in a messy bun, wearing my favorite massive, paint-covered jumper.
My husband cocks his head. His expression is more curious than angry. “You're not in your studio.”
I shrug. “I got impatient?” I say weakly.
He shakes his head. “I suppose this is what I signed up for, marrying an artist.”
No yelling. Weird. “Sorry. I planned on cleaning up before you got home. You're early, according to your schedule.”
“I still have work today. I have reports to review before our session later.”
I sit back on my heels. “We havegotto come up with a better word for our baby-making times than ‘session.’”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the least sexy word possible. It doesn’t exactly put me in the mood, thinking about a ‘session.’”
His lips quirk up at the side in a tiny, crooked smile. “What would you suggest instead? Meeting?”
