“Supply and be-scammed, more like it.”
“Trademark that,” Rae said. But she walked closer to the print, tilting her head and imagining how it would look in the Lorimer Loft.
She’d been reading up on depression and found a study citing the cognitive benefits of abstract art. That was all the evidence she’d needed to drag Ellen to the art fair. Perhapsdragwas the wrong verb. Ellen had been very up for going, thinking it a highly sophisticated midtwenties outing. Rae hadn’t shared her deeper motive.
“This one sort of looks like a black hole,” Rae said, pointing to a black canvas swirled with gray. “Think our résumés are at the bottom of it?”
Rae’s job search wasn’t off to a roaring start. She’d applied to over a dozen marketing and content-creation jobs at different companies. It wasn’t poetry, but it felt like a small step in that direction.Forward.Upward. Or even justOut. Ellen too was looking for a career switch, something that didn’t require living out of a suitcase. Neither of them had heard back from any of their prospects, andthey’d begun referring to the online application portals as black holes, sucking their career ambitions into the great cyber abyss.
Getting ghosted by companies felt slightly less personal than getting ghosted by guys, but no more pleasant.
They shoved their way through the crowd to the next booth: oil paintings of European city scenes, heavy on bridges and lampposts.
“Nowthisis art,” Ellen said. “I wish Aaron got me one of these prints for our three-month anniversary instead of those crystal earrings. They’re way too heavy. I’m going to get old-lady earlobes.”
“Listen to yourself, please.”
Ellen tossed back her head and laughed. “You’re right. I’m enjoying the boyfriend thing a little too much.”
“You’re allowed,” Rae said. “But I draw the line at complaining about crystals.”
“Aaron gave me his Netflix password last night too,” Ellen said.
“Damn. Must be getting serious.”
“Might be,” Ellen said, uncharacteristically laconic.
Rae glanced over at her beautiful best friend, bundled up under a knitted hat and scarf. She’d never seen this kind of peace on Ellen’s face before when talking about a guy. Envy flickered before rising into shared happiness.
“More kindergarten creations,” Ellen grumbled as they passed another stall of splatter paint.
“They’re actually more complex than they look,” Rae protested. “Abstract art can stimulate a meaningful release of dopamine into the parietal lobes of the brain.”
She was pretty sure this held true for all types of art, but the study had mentioned only abstract, and she liked the idea that abstract styles were uniquely effective, that there could be a subconscious benefit to seemingly random and haphazard patterns.
“Where’d you learn that?”
“Saw an article on my news feed,” Rae lied.
“Did the article talk about depression?”
She should know by now not to underestimate Ellen’s bullshit detector. “Might’ve been in there,” she admitted.
Ellen stopped walking. “Is that what we’re doing here?” she asked, voice rising. In another city, the volume might’ve turned heads, but not in New York. “Art shopping for your boyfriend without benefits?”
Rae looked down at her boots, which were patching up two different cobblestone cracks. “It’s not like that.”
“You can’t try and fix him with your problem-solution framework.”
“I’m not trying to fix him,” Rae said. “I’m trying to be a good friend.”
“You’ve never boughtmeart.”
“I love you enough tomakeyou art. New maroon masterpieces on the couch every week.”
“Wine stains don’t fucking count.”
“Ellen, you know you’re always going to come first. I just—” Rae squared up and met Ellen’s steely gaze as locals and tourists pushed past. “I don’t know, I just feel like I’m supposed to be there for Dustin right now.” She resisted addingI’m sorry.
