Elizabeth sat across the deuce table from George, noting his distraction. His gaze barely held hers. Normally, he enjoyed the place and the food, which he picked at. It wasn’t the music or the ambiance of her favorite uptown restaurant garnering his attention. Perhaps the disappointment of his avant-garde photo collection not securing a showing at the Aperture Foundation had him all worked up. He’d banked on that exhibition showcase for so long and thought it would be the one to finally expose his talent.
“Babe, do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
He shrugged, then guzzled his cocktail.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out. There’s always La Tempera for a showing,” she tried to pacify, even if his style of photography went against her gallery’s emphasis on fineoriginalart.
“And how will that look? Jeez, Lizzy, the last thing I want is for my girlfriend to prop me up. Besides, Guy’s place is hardly known. What a loser he turned out to be.”
Ouch. “Well, it’s my place, my gallery now, and he’s been a valuable mentor. La Tempera isn’t struggling, you know. Look at all the high-end clients that came out for Pillson. We sold just about everything. I just need ... a few more art collectors like the one who came in on recommendation last week,” she defensively said.
He shrugged again. “Whatever. My work deserves apreeminentgallery worthy of my vision and gift. Your brokerrepresentation does nothing for my exposure. It’s probably hurting me.”
Rankled, she snapped. “I don’t see how that’s possible! Contrary to your opinion, the gallery deserves traditional artists who value realL’art pour l’art, not for sensationalism and financial gain, especially from manipulated AI images that possibly violate others’ copyright.”Like yours!Take that!
Putting his glass down, he narrowed his eyes, then smirked. “Ah, yes, Lizzy, once again, makes her disdain for AI known. The failed watercolorist who hasn’t picked up a paintbrush in ... how long?”
That arrow hit the bullseye, and he knew it. George always knew where to shoot, having memorized her every weakness over their eight months together.
Although insensitive and not dignifying a remark, she couldn’t resist. “You’re right, but at least I’m open to inspiration. When we first met, you had artistic passion, photographing people and places that evoked emotion. And, yes, I hate AI. Your new abstract direction using artificial intelligence is a tougher commercial sell. No pun intended but your body of work needs ...”
He snorted a laugh. “Hey, AI is here to stay, and I’m making a killing on it.”
She didn’t continue. At times like this she wanted to give the ring back, but the pool of single, sane, straight men and the desire to share her life with someone were a challenge to reconcile. But with only months left, she’d never dream of leaving someone at the altar.Shewasn’t wired to be cruel or self-motivated. Unfortunately for her sake, George knew all that.
He picked up his phone and scrolled.
“Please put the phone down,” she said.
He did as asked then sneered. Rarely had she commanded him to do something.
“George, I don’t want to argue with you. If you’d like, I can call my friend at Petrone. He curates a townhouse gallery in Chelsea,” she softly offered. “There is also Chelsea’s Art Nouveau, the new vanity gallery.”
He scoffed. “I refuse to pay anyone to show my work! Besides, Chelsea sucks.”
“I disagree. Mann’s gallery is in Chelsea, and he is internationally known to support up-and-coming photographers. I don’t know about ...yourstyle, as it borders ... pornography. Still, I can call to introduce myself as a fellow gallery owner with an impressive art education and find out if he’s interested.”
“After the wedding, I’ll be the one making the calls and introducingourgallery and its totally revamped vision, including the name. New image, new beginning with me as creative director.”
“I haven’t made my decision about that yet,” she said. “But there is always the option of buy-in of La Tempera—name unchanged.”
George looked at his phone again, then downed the rest of his drink. “It’s late. I gotta go.”
Of course he would cut and run. He’d been gunning for free half-ownership of La Tempera for a month now.
“It’s not late. Stay, finish your dinner. You love this music,” she half-heartedly said. It seemed all they did was fight these days.
“I got work to do,” he said.
“Oh. I understand. I guess I’ll stay and have another glass of wine and enjoy the music.”And pick up the check, as usual.
Rising, he looked down at her forced smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah, tomorrow,” she replied flatly.
Wine and solitude—not to mention good music—always made her introspective and philosophical, and as one more glass led to two, her mind jumped on more trains of thought than humanly possible. Ultimately, all but a few took her to nowhere significant other than regret and frustration. If there was one word in her lexicon that she hated, it was “co-dependent,” and that train was a wreck. As though the Pinot Noir had softened a veil, she considered that George just may be a covert narcissist, a nuanced version of her textbook mother. How had she missed the patterns hidden behind the telltale charisma that had wooed her into bed? Or maybe George was just an asshole, and it had taken her eight months to figure it out.
The Brazilian jazz trio in the corner kept her thoughts company and as they often traveled, perhaps on a weekly basis to a stop on Memory Lane where she visited with William Darcy, the happiest, most fulfilling time of her life. She thanked God that she had such happy memories to take her far away from some of her realities.
