No sales. Nothing. Zilch. Not even a hint of interest to follow up on, although she’s too polite to put it that way.
It doesn’t mean that my work won’t sell, but opening night was my best shot, and my hopes were as high as my pockets are empty.
Damn it. My job at the coffee shop will cover my bills, but how am I supposed to buy art supplies and keep making work if I can’t sell a single piece? I thought this show was going to make me. I thought I’d have the money and respect to call myself a professional artist, finally.
I find my glasses, then turn my eyes to Alexander. My best friend’s breath rises and falls slowly, peacefully. He worked so hard helping me get ready for the show. I don’t know how I could have done it without him. He drove the illustrations to the gallery, designed and printed invitations for all of our friends, and cheerfully kept my chaotic life in order while I lost myself in the final week of work.
I just hope he’s not too disappointed that I didn’t make any cash. I know he doesn’t actually care about what he lent me for art supplies—he’s told me enough times not to worry about it—but I still want to pay it back and show him that I’m not totally helpless.
Although honestly, without my best friend, I would be pretty damn helpless.
Morning light shines on Alexander’s soft, tan complexion. His ears stick out just a little, more noticeable since he keeps his curly, dark hair so neatly trimmed, only allowing a little length on top. He’s slim, about my height, with adorably round cheeks and a big wide smile that feels like a reward. There are freckles under his eyes and across the bridge of his nose, a darker brown than his skin.
Lying there and sleeping, his face is quiet, his lips only parting to let out the occasional soft whimper.
Instead of wallowing over my finances, I stroke the side of Alexander’s head, then crawl out of bed. I owe him breakfast, and since Sunday is one of the only days he actually sleeps in, I want to bring it to him in bed as an extra thanks.
“Good morning, Madame President,” I say with a formal bow to our cat. Alexander and I got her when we moved into our first apartment. She was actually just supposed to be my cat at first, but then Alexander and I kept living together, and now she’s kind of ours.
“How are you this fine morning?” I ask as I squat to pet her.
Madame President purrs, slightly annoyed by me, then arches her back and rubs against my leg.
“Very good,” I nod.
My favorite thing about our apartment is that it has a big kitchen in the back and a back door that opens onto a wide wooden porch and stairs that run down to the alley. At the start of the summer, especially, the light just pours in every morning, so I open the door to get some fresh air.
I’m in my sweatpants and a Fiona Apple T-shirt that Alexander found at a thrift store last year, so I put on an old Fiona Apple album and dance around while I make the food and brew coffee. I love cooking. It’s one of my favorite things to do, so I’m happy to cut fruit and whip eggs and fry up tempeh bacon strips. As the noises of the city start up outside, I tell Madame President about the art opening, delicately skipping past the issue of sales.
Then that old “Sleep to Dream” song comes on, and I end up swinging her in my arms, dancing around the kitchen.
There are dirty dishes everywhere, and I realize I’ve somehow been drinking from two different mugs of coffee. But I don’t want the food to get cold, so I quickly shut the door to the porch and fill an old wooden tray with the breakfast.
“Morning, sunshine,” I call out gently as I return to the bedroom, but Alexander is already up, smiling lazily in bed.
“Oh my god, breakfast!”
My friend looks so damn happy, and that makes me happy.
Sometimes, people get confused about my relationship with Alexander. They think because we hold hands and sleep in the same bed occasionally, we must be dating or something. What they don’t understand, though, is that the only reason we can be so close is because we aren’t having sex or trying to marry each other.
Alexander is, in every way imaginable, my best friend. He and I fit together perfectly; we always have. Relationships come and go, and sex is just sex, but I’m always going to be there for Alexander, just like he’s going to be there for me.
That matters more to me than any boyfriend ever could.
I’m a free spirit, anyway. Relationships take up so much time and energy, and the second people start dating, they start trying to change each other. When I realized that having a boyfriend always made me feel like I was suffocating, I swore the whole thing off.
Alexander and I sit at opposite ends of the bed, the food between us. His room is neatly organized, as always, and there’s a stack of books waiting on his nightstand. Somehow, a very small leaf from the ivy that grows next to his bed has gotten stuck to his face, and I don’t tell him because it’s cute. As he wakes up, he oohs and ahhs over the food, then does the same over how well the show went last night. He’s chattier and chattier as he drinks his coffee, until eventually he bobs his head around enough that the leaf falls off.
“Are you really going to wake up early enough to make me breakfast every day this week?” he asks.
I sip my coffee. “Sure, why not? I thought I’d come to beach clean with you.”
Alexander’s face lights up with a toothy smile. “Yay!”
I laugh. “I guess it has been a while, huh?”
Beach clean is one of Alexander’s things. He’s kind of a do-gooder, but in a way that’s not at all annoying. He just gets really enthusiastic about his causes, which are always totally legitimate and charming causes to care about. It’s one of the first things that I really understood about him, one of the reasons I stuck my head out from my book long enough to say hi, and it still inspires me all these years later.
