Curator of more than just art, seemed like. Because I have a feeling showing him my portfolio over drinks wouldn’t have ended with me having my own exhibit at one of the best modern-art museums in the country.
“Did you literally just prevent me from talking to aMoMAcurator?”
I sip my seltzer. The mango flavor is underwhelming.
Wyatt’s face goes as red as the period painting. “I— Oh god. Uh. I can go and get him to come back…?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No. Please don’t. I’m ninety-nine percent sure he wasn’t interested in my art.”
“Ely, how many times do we have to go over this? You’re good. You’rereallygood. Your work is raw and emotional in a way that a lot of artists are afraid to be. It’s what makes your pictures so…consuming.And if he doesn’t realize that, then he’s an idiot,” says Wyatt.
It’s sweet enough that I’m almost willing to forgive him for all the other bullshit.
Almost.
We both drink our seltzers in silence, staring at the painting to avoid staring at each other.
After several seconds have passed, long enough to let the tension thicken to the point of awkwardness, I say: “Maybe I’ll do something like this for my capstone project. Instead of taking pictures of people’s outsides, take pictures of people’s insides.”
“Please don’t,” Wyatt says, and just like that, we’re back to normal.
I have the compulsion to try to keep him here with me for the rest of the time we’re at the gallery. A terrible idea for a lot of reasons, not least because it’d be incredibly obvious what I was trying to do.
But he doesn’t seem that keen to move on either. He lingers by my side as we shift to the next piece, even if we don’t say much. I wonder if he’s actually paying as close attention to the art as he seems to be, his eyes narrowed slightly as they fixate on a sculpture made out of what looks like skin and fingernail clippings.
The art is interesting enough that I shouldn’t get distracted. But that proves to be impossible when I’m standing next to Wyatt. I’m keenly attuned to every time he shifts his weight from one foot to another—every time he takes a particularly deep breath—when he lifts one hand to draw it back through his hair.
I know how soft that hair feels. I twisted it around my knuckles while Wyatt went down on me.
Maybe my capstone project should be a reflection on the subtle embarrassment of being turned on in a public place.
I glance sidelong at Wyatt, half hoping to find him looking back at me. Maybe if I did, I’d murmur something low and provocative and watch him flush. Maybe I’d reach for his hand, or he would for mine, and we’d find somewhere better—somewhereprivate—to discuss art.
But unfortunately Wyatt really does seem captivated by the toenails, so I’m stuck here.
Wanting.
Ophelia finds us a few minutes later, hooking her arm through mine and bumping our hips together. “Hey. You ready to head out?”
“Sure.” I turn my gaze back toward Wyatt and offer him a small smile. “See you next week, I guess.”
“Remember what I said. No gratuitous gore in the capstone project. I mean it.”
“No promises,” I say, and then I let Ophelia tug me away, abandoning my half-consumed shitty seltzer on a nearby table.
Ophelia leans in as we head out the door to whisper: “Who wasthat? He’s hot. Was I supposed to make you leave with me? Or do you want to go back in there? I’m not trying to pussy block you if you wanted to stay.”
Pussy block. Oh lord. Is that actually a term people use now?“That was Wyatt. You know. The…guy.”
“The guy?” Ophelia starts, but my implication dawns on her almost immediately. “Wait. Oh my god. That’s him?That’sthe sexy professor?Ely, holy shit, go back in there immediately!”
“No,absolutely not, nope. You saved me at just the right time. I was only gonna embarrass myself if you left me there.”
“Ely!”
I shake my head firmly. “I can’t. I’m serious. I’m trying to respect his boundaries.”
“Is he trying to respect hisownboundaries? Because he looked pretty happy to stick around right next to you the whole time.”
